ITY 


THAT 
LASS    O'    LOWRIE'S 


She  stepped  into  the  gallery  before  he  could  protest. — SV^  -p.  296. 


THAT 
LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 


BY 

FRANCES  HODGSON  BURNETT 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW   YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

1914 


COPYRIGHT,  1877,  1896,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


COPYRIGHT,  1905,  BY 
FRANCES  HODGSON  BURNETT 


Stack 
Annex 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  A  DIFFICULT  CASE      .    .  * i 

II.  "Liz" 18 

III.  THE  REVEREND  HAROLD  BARHOLM  .  .  .  .34 

IV.  "LOVE   ME,   LOVE   MY  DOG" 51 

V.  OUTSIDE  THE  HEDGE 59 

VI.  JOAN  AND  THE  CHILD 73 

VII.  ANICE  AT  THE  COTTAGE       83 

VIII.  THE  WAGER  OF  BATTLE 88 

IX.  THE  NEWS  AT  THE  RECTORY  ......  99 

X.  ON  THE  KNOLL  ROAD 105 

XL  NIB  AND  His  MASTER  MAKE  A   CALL      .    .  109 

XII.  ON  GUARD 113 

XIII.  JOAN  AND  THE  PICTURE 120 

XIV.  THE  OPEN  "DAVY" 130' 

r  XV.  A  DISCOVERY 137 

XVI.  "Owo  SAMMY"  IN  TROUBLE 143 

XVII.  THE  MEMBER  OF  PARLIAMENT 156 

V 


vi  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XVIII.  A  CONFESSION  OF  FAITH 162 

XIX.  RIBBONS 166 

XX.  THE  NEW  GATE-KEEPER 175 

XXI.  DERRICK'S  QUESTION 183 

XXII.    MASTER  LANDSELL'S  SON 189 

XXIII.  "CANNYBLES" 198 

XXIV.  DAN  LOWRIE'S  RETURN 208 

XXV.    THE  OLD  DANGER 214 

XXVI.    THE  PACKAGE  RETURNED 220 

XXVII.  SAMMY  CRADDOCK'S  "MANNY-ENSIS"      .  227 

XXVIII.    WARNED 240 

XXIX.    LYING  IN  WAIT 245 

XXX.    THE  SLIP  OF  PAPER 253 

XXXI.    THE  LAST  BLOW 258 

XXXII.     "TURNED  METHODY!" 265 

XXXIII.  FATE 275 

XXXIV.  THE  DECISION 280 

XXXV.     IN  THE  PIT 287 

XXXVI.     ALIVE  YET 299 

XXXVII.    WATCHING  AND  WAITING 303 

XXXVIII.     RECOGNITION 308 


CONTENTS  vii 

CHAPTER  'AGE 

XXXIX.    A  TESTIMONIAL 3*2 

XL.    GOING  SOUTH 317 

XLI.    "A  SOART  o'  POLLYGY" 323 

XLII.      ASHLEY-WOLD 326 

XLIII.    Liz  COMES  BACK 333 

XLIV.    Nor  YET 337 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

She  stepped  into  the  gallery  before  he  could  protest 

Frontispiece 

FACING 
PAGE 

Then  it  was  that  Anice  turned  round  and  saw  her    .    .       62 

Joan  halted  suddenly 106 

She  drew  the  curly  head  down  upon  her  lap 196 


THAT    LASS    O'    LOWRIE'S 

CHAPTER  I 

A  Difficult  Case 

THEY  did  not  look  like  women,  or  at  least  a 
stranger  new  to  the  district  might  easily  have 
been  misled  by  their  appearance,  as  they  stood 
together  in  a  group,  by  the  pit's  mouth.  There 
were  about  a  dozen  of  them  there — all  "  pit-girls," 
as  they  were  called ;  women  who  wore  a  dress 
more  than  half  masculine,  and  who  talked  loudly 
and  laughed  discordantly,  and  some  of  whom, 
God  knows,  had  faces  as  hard  and  brutal  as  the 
hardest  of  their  collier  brothers  and  husbands  and 
sweethearts.  They  had  lived  among  the  coal 
pits,  and  had  worked  early  and  late  at  the 
"  mouth,"  ever  since  they  had  been  old  enough 
to  take  part  in  the  heavy  labor.  It  was  not  to  be 
wondered  at  that  they  had  lost  all  bloom  of 
womanly  modesty  and  gentleness.  Their  mothers 
had  been  "pit-girls"  in  their  time,  their  grand 
mothers  in  theirs ;  they  had  been  born  in  coarse 
homes ;  they  had  fared  hardly,  and  worked  hard ; 


2  THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

they  had  breathed  in  the  dust  and  grime  of  coal, 
and,  somehow  or  other,  it  seemed  to  stick  to  them 
and  reveal  itself  in  their  natures  as  it  did  in  their 
bold  unwashed  faces.  At  first  one  shrank  from 
them,  but  one's  shrinking  could  not  fail  to  change 
to  pity.  There  was  no  element  of  softness  to  rule  or 
even  influence  them  in  their  half  savage  existence. 

On  the  particular  evening  of  which  I  speak, 
the  group  at  the  pit's  mouth  were  even  more  than 
usually  noisy.  They  were  laughing,  gossiping 
and  joking, — coarse  enough  jokes, — and  now  and 
then  a  listener  might  have  heard  an  oath  flung 
out  as  if  all  were  well  used  to  the  sound.  Most 
of  them  were  young  women,  though  there  were 
a  few  older  ones  among  them,  and  the  principal 
figure  in  the  group — the  center  figure,  about 
whom  the  rest  clustered — was  a  young  woman. 
But  she  differed  from  the  rest  in  two  or  three 
respects.  The  others  seemed  somewhat  stunted 
in  growth ;  she  was  tall  enough  to  be  imposing. 
She  was  as  roughly  clad  as  the  poorest  of  them, 
but  she  wore  her  uncouth  garb  differently.  The 
man's  jacket  of  fustian,  open  at  the  neck,  bared  a 
handsome  sunbrowned  throat.  The  man's  hat 
shaded  a  face  with  dark  eyes  that  had  a  sort  of 
animal  beauty,  and  a  well-molded  chin.  It  was 
at  this  girl  that  all  the  rough  jokes  seemed  to  be 
directed. 

"  I'll  tell  thee,  Joan,"  said  one  woman,  "  we'st 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S  3 

ha*  thee  sweetheartin*  wi'  him  afore  th'  month's 
out." 

"  Aye,"  laughed  her  fellows,  "  so  we  shall. 
Tha'st  ha*  to  turn  soft  after  aw.  Tha  conna  stond 
out  again'  th'  Lunnon  chap.  We'st  ha'  thee 
sweetheartin',  Joan,  i'  th'  face  o'  aw  tha'st  said." 

Joan  Lowrie  faced  them  defiantly : 

"  Tha'st  noan  ha'  me  sweetheartin'  wi'  siccan  a 
too',"  she  said,  "  I  amna  ower  fond  o'  men  folk  at 
no  time.  I've  had  my  fill  on  'em ;  and  I'm  noan 
loike  to  tak*  up  wi'  such  loike  as  this  un.  An* 
he's  no  an  a  Lunnoner  neither.  He's  on'y  fro'  th' 
South.  An  th'  South  is  na  Lunnon." 

"  He's  getten'  Lunnon  ways  tho',"  put  in  another. 
"  Choppin'  his  words  up  an'  mincin'  'em  sma*. 
He's  noan  Lancashire,  ony  gowk  could  tell." 

"  I  dunnot  see  as  he  minces  so,"  said  Joan 
roughly.  "  He  dunnot  speak  our  loike,  but  he's 
well  enow  i'  his  way." 

A  boisterous  peal  of  laughter  interrupted  her. 

"  I  thowt  tha'  ca'ed  him  a  foo'  a  minute  sin'," 
cried  two  or  three  voices  at  once.  "  Eh,  Joan, 
lass,  tha'st  goin'  t'  change  thy  moind,  I  see." 

The  girl's  eyes  flashed. 

"  Theer's  others  I  could  ca'  foo's,"  she  said ;  "  I 
need  na  go  far  to  foind  foo's.  Foo'  huntin's  th'  best 
sport  out,  an*  th'  safest.  Leave  th'  engineer  alone 
an'  leave  me  alone  too.  It  '11  be  th'  best  fur  yo'." 

She  turned  round  and  strode  out  of  the  group 


4  THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

Another  burst  of  derisive  laughter  followed  her, 
but  she  took  no  notice  of  it  She  took  no  notice 
of  anything — not  even  of  the  two  men  who  at  that 
very  moment  passed  and  turned  to  look  at  her  as 
she  went  by. 

"  A  fine  creature ! "  said  one  of  them. 

"  A  fine  creature !  H  echoed  the  other.  "  Yes, 
and  you  see  that  is  precisely  it,  Derrick.  •  A  fine 
creature ' —  and  nothing  else." 

They  were  the  young  engineer  and  his  friend 
the  Reverend  Paul  Grace,  curate  of  the  parish. 
There  were  never  two  men  more  unlike,  physi 
cally  and  mentally,  and  yet  it  would  have  been  a 
hard  task  to  find  two  natures  more  harmonious 
and  sympathetic.  Still  most  people  wondered  at 
and  failed  to  comprehend  their  friendship.  The 
mild,  nervous  little  Oxonian  barely  reached  Der 
rick's  shoulder;  his  finely  cut  face  was  singularly 
feminine  and  innocent ;  the  mild  eyes  beaming 
from  behind  his  small  spectacles  had  an  absent, 
dreamy  look.  One  could  not  fail  to  see  at  the 
first  glance,  that  this  refined,  restless,  conscien 
tious  little  gentleman  was  hardly  the  person  to 
cope  successfully  with  Riggan.  Derrick  strode 
by  his  side  like  a  young  son  of  Anak — brains  and 
muscle  evenly  balanced  and  fully  developed. 

He  turned  his  head  over  his  shoulder  to  look  at 
Joan  Lowrie  once  again. 

"  That  girl,"  said   Grace,  "  has  worked  at  the 


THAT  LASS  O'   LOWRIE'S  5 

pit's  mouth  from  her  childhood ;  her  mother  was 
a  pit  girl  until  she  died — of  hard  work,  privation 
and  ill  treatment.  Her  father  is  a  collier  and  lives 
as  most  of  them  do — drinking,  rioting,  fighting. 
Their  home  is  such  a  home  as  you  have  seen 
dozens  of  since  you  came  here;  the  girl  could  not 
better  it  if  she  tried,  and  would  not  know  how  to 
begin  if  she  felt  inclined.  She  has  borne,  they  tell 
me,  such  treatment  as  would  have  killed  most 
women.  She  has  been  beaten,  bruised,  felled  to 
the  earth  by  this  father  of  hers,  who  is  said  to  be 
a  perfect  fiend  in  his  cups.  And  yet  she  holds  to 
her  place  in  their  wretched  hovel,  and  makes 
herself  a  slave  to  the  fellow  with  a  dogged,  stub 
born  determination.  What  can  I  do  with  such  a 
case  as  that,  Derrick  ?  " 

"You  have  tried  to  make  friends  with  the 
girl?*'  said  Derrick. 

Grace  colored  sensitively. 

"  There  is  not  a  man,  woman  or  child  in  the 
parish,"  he  answered,  '*  with  whom  I  have  not 
conscientiously  tried  to  make  friends,  and  there  is 
scarcely  one,  I  think,  with  whom  I  have  succeeded. 
Why  can  I  not  succeed  ?  Why  do  I  always  fail  ? 
The  fault  must  be  with  myself " 

"  A  mistake  that  at  the  outset,"  interposed  Der. 
rick.  "  There  is  no  *  fault  *  in  the  matter ;  there  is 
simply  misfortune.  Your  parishioners  are  so  un 
fortunate  as  not  to  be  able  to  understand  you,  and 


6          THAT  LASS  O'  LOWRIE'S 

on  your  part  you  are  so  unfortunate  as  to  fail  at 
first  to  place  yourself  on  the  right  footing  with 
them.  I  say  '  at  first/  you  observe.  Give  your. 
self  time,  Grace,  and  give  them  time  too." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  Reverend  Paul.  «•  But 
speaking  of  this  girl — *  That  lass  of  Lowrie's/  as 
she  is  always  called — Joan  I  believe  her  name  is. 
Joan  Lowrie  is,  I  can  assure  you,  a  weight  upon 
me.  I  cannot  help  her  and  I  cannot  rid  my  mind 
of  her.  She  stands  apart  from  her  fellows.  She 
nas  most  of  the  faults  of  her  class,  but  none  of 
their  follies ;  and  she  has  the  reputation  of  being 
half  feared,  half  revered.  The  man  who  dared  to 
approach  her  with  the  coarse  love-making  which 
is  the  fashion  among  them,  would  rue  it  to  the 
last  day  of  his  life.  She  seems  to  defy  all  the 
world." 

"  And  it  is  impossible  to  win  upon  her  ?  '* 

**  More  than  impossible.  The  first  time  I  went 
to  her  with  sympathy,  I  felt  myself  a  child  in  her 
hands.  She  never  laughed  nor  jeered  at  me  as 
the  rest  do.  She  stood  before  me  like  a  rock, 
listening  until  I  had  finished  speaking.  *  Parson/ 
she  said,  *  if  thal't  leave  me  alone,  I'll  leave  thee 
alone/  and  then  turned  about  and  walked  into  the 
house.  I  am  nothing  but  '  th'  parson  *  to  these 
people,  and  *  th*  parson '  is  one  for  whom  they  have 
little  respect  and  no  sympathy." 

He    was    not  far  wrong.     The  stolid   heavy- 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S  7 

natured  colliers  openly  looked  down  upon  'th* 
parson.'  A  '  bit  of  a  whipper  snapper,'  even  the 
best-natured  called  him  in  sovereign  contempt 
for  his  insignificant  physical  proportions.  Truly 
the  sensitive  little  gentleman's  lines  had  not  fallen 
in  pleasant  places.  And  this  was  not  all.  There 
was  another  source  of  discouragement  with  which 
he  had  to  battle  in  secret,  though  of  this  he  would 
have  felt  it  almost  dishonor  to  complain.  But 
Derrick's  keen  eyes  had  seen  it  long  ago,  and, 
understanding  it  well,  he  sympathized  with  his 
friend  accordingly.  Yet,  despite  the  many  re 
buffs  the  curate  had  met  with,  he  was  not  con 
quered  by  any  means.  His  was  not  an  easily  sub 
dued  nature,  after  all.  He  was  very  warm  on  the 
subject  of  Joan  Lowrie  this  evening — so  warm, 
indeed,  that  the  interest  the  mere  sight  of  the  girl 
had  awakened  in  Derrick's  mind  was  considerably 
heightened.  They  were  still  speaking  of  her 
when  they  stopped  before  the  door  of  Grace's 
modest  lodgings. 

"  You  will  come  in,  of  course  ?  "  said  Paul. 

"  Yes,"  Derrick  answered,  "  for  a  sh«rt  time. 
I  am  tired  and  shall  feel  all  the  better  for  a  cup 
of  Mrs.  Burnie's  tea,"  pushing  the  hair  back  from 
his  forehead,  as  he  had  a  habit  of  doing  when  a 
little  excited. 

He  made  the  small  parlor  appear  smaller  than 
ever,  when  he  entered  it.  He  was  obliged  to 


8  THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

bend  his  head  when  he  passed  through  the  door, 
and  it  was  not  until  he  had  thrown  himself  into 
the  largest  easy  chair,  that  the  trim  apartment 
seemed  to  regain  its  countenance. 

Grace  paused  at  the  table,  and  with  a  sudden 
flush,  took  up  a  letter  that  lay  there  among  two 
or  three  uninteresting-looking  epistles. 

"  It  is  a  note  from  Miss  Anice,"  he  said,  coming 
to  the  hearth  and  applying  his  pen-knife  in  a 
gentle  way  to  the  small  square  envelope. 

"  Not  a  letter,  Grace  ? "  said  Derrick  with  a 
smile. 

"  A  letter !  Oh  dear,  no  !  She  has  never  written 
me  a  letter.  They  are  always  notes  with  some 
sort  of  business  object.  She  has  very  decided 
views  on  the  subject  of  miscellaneous  letter- 
writing." 

He  read  the  note  himself  and  then  handed  it 
to  Derrick. 

It  was  a  compact,  decided  hand,  free  from  the 
suspicion  of  an  unnecessary  curve. 

"  DEAR  MR.  GRACE, — 

"  Many  thanks  for  the  book.  You  are  very  kind  indeed. 
Pray  let  us  hear  something  more  about  your  people.  I  am 
afraid  papa  must  find  them  very  discouraging,  but  I  cannot  help 
feeling  interested.  Grandmamma  wishes  to  be  remembered  to 
you. 

"  With  more  thanks, 

"'  Believe  me  your  friend, 

ANICE  BARHOLM." 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S  9 

Derrick  refolded  the  note  and  handed  it  back 
to  his  friend.  To  tell  the  truth,  it  did  not  impress 
him  very  favorably.  A  girl  not  yet  twenty  years 
old,  who  could  write  such  a  note  as  this  to  a  man 
who  loved  her,  must  be  rather  too  self-contained 
and  well  balanced. 

"  You  have  never  told  me  much  of  this  story, 
Grace,"  he  said. 

"  There  is  not  much  to  tell,"  answered  the 
curate,  flushing  again.  "  She  is  the  Rector's 
daughter.  I  have  known  her  three  years.  You 
remember  I  wrote  to  you  about  meeting  her 
while  you  were  in  India.  As  for  the  rest,  I  do 
not  exactly  understand  myself  how  it  is  that  I 
have  gone  so  far,  having  so — so  little  encourage 
ment — in  fact  having  had  no  encouragement  at 
all ;  but,  however  that  is,  it  has  grown  upon  me, 
Derrick, — my  feeling  for  her  has  grown  into  my 
life.  She  has  never  cared  for  me.  I  am  quite 
sure  of  that,  you  see.  Indeed,  I  could  hardly 
expect  it.  It  is  not  her  way  to  care  for  men 
as  they  are  likely  to  care  for  her,  though  it 
will  come  some  day,  I  suppose — with  the  com 
ing  man,"  half  smiling.  "  She  is  simply  what 
she  signs  herself  here,  my  friend  Anice  Bar- 
holm,  and  I  am  thankful  for  that  much.  She 
would  not  write  even  that  if  she  did  not  mean 
it." 

"  Bless  my  soul,"  broke  in  Derrick,  tossing  back 


10         THAT   LASS  O'   LOWRIE'S 

his  head  impatiently ;  "  and  she  is  only  nineteen 
yet,  you  say  ?  " 

"  Only  nineteen,"  said  the  curate,  with  simple 
trustfulness  in  his  friend's  sympathy,  "  but  differ- 
ent,  you  know,  from  any  other  woman  I  have 
ever  seen." 

The  tea  and  toast  came  in  then,  and  they  sat 
down  together  to  partake  of  it.  Derrick  knew 
Anice  quite  well  before  the  meal  was  ended,  and 
yet  he  had  not  asked  many  questions.  He  knew 
how  Grace  had  met  her  at  her  father's  house — an 
odd,  self-reliant,  very  pretty  and  youthful-looking 
little  creature,  with  the  force  and  decision  of  half 
a  dozen  ordinary  women  hidden  in  her  small 
frame ;  how  she  had  seemed  to  like  him ;  how 
their  intimacy  had  grown ;  how  his  gentle,  deep- 
rooted  passion  had  grown  with  it;  how  he  had 
learned  to  understand  that  he  had  nothing  to 
hope  for. 

"  I  am  a  little  fearful  for  the  result  of  her  first 
visit  here,"  said  Grace,  pushing  his  cup  aside  and 
looking  troubled.  "  I  cannot  bear  to  think  of  her 
being  disappointed  and  disturbed  by  the  half- 
savage  state  in  which  these  people  live.  She 
knows  nothing  of  the  mining  districts.  She  has 
never  been  in  Lancashire,  and  they  have  always 
lived  in  the  South.  She  is  in  Kent  now,  with 
Mrs.  Barholm's  mother.  And  though  I  have 
tried,  in  my  short  letters  to  her,  to  prepare  her 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S          11 

for  the  rough  side  of  life  she  will  be  obliged  to 
see,  I  am  afraid  it  is  impossible  for  her  to  realize 
it,  and  it  may  be  a  shock  to  her  when  she  comes." 

"  She  is  coming  to  Riggan  then  ? "  said  Der 
rick. 

"  In  a  few  weeks.  She  has  been  visiting  Mrs. 
Galloway  since  the  Rector  gave  up  his  living  at 
Ashley  wolde,  and  Mrs.  Barholm  told  me  to-day 
that  she  spoke  in  her  last  letter  of  coming  to 
them." 

The  moon  was  shining  brightly  when  Derrick 
stepped  out  into  the  street  later  in  the  evening, 
and  though  the  air  was  somewhat  chill  it  was  by 
no  means  unpleasant.  He  had  rather  a  long  walk 
before  him.  He  disliked  the  smoke  and  dust  of 
the  murky  little  town,  and  chose  to  live  on  its 
outskirts ;  but  he  was  fond  of  sharp  exercise,  and 
regarded  the  distance  between  his  lodging  and 
the  field  of  his  daily  labor  as  an  advantage. 

"  I  work  off  a  great  deal  of  superfluous  steam 
between  the  two  places,"  he  said  to  Grace  at  the 
door.  "  The  wind  coming  across  Boggart  Brow 
has  a  way  of  scattering  and  cooling  restless  plans 
and  feverish  fancies,  that  is  good  for  a  man.  Half 
a  mile  of  the  Knoll  Road  is  often  enough  to  blow 
all  the  morbidness  out  of  a  fellow." 

To-night  by  the  time  he  reached  the  corner 
that  turned  him  upon  the  Knoll  Road,  his  mind 
had  wandered  upon  an  old  track,  but  it  had  been 


12         THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

drawn  there  by  a  new  object, — nothing  other  than 
Joan  Lowrie,  indeed.  The  impression  made 
upon  him  by  the  story  of  Joan  and  her  outcast 
life  was  one  not  easy  to  be  effaced.  The  hardest 
miseries  in  the  lot  of  a  class  in  whom  he  could 
not  fail  to  be  interested,  were  grouped  about  that 
dramatic  figure.  He  was  struck,  too,  by  a  pain- 
ful  sense  of  incongruity. 

"  If  she  had  been  in  this  other  girl's  niche,"  he 
said,  "  if  she  had  lived  the  life  of  this  Anice " 

But  he  did  not  finish  his  sentence.  Something, 
not  many  yards  beyond  him,  caught  his  eye — a 
figure  seated  upon  the  road-side  near  a  collier's 
cottage — evidently  a  pit  girl  in  some  trouble,  for 
her  head  was  bowed  upon  her  hands,  and  there 
was  a  dogged  sort  of  misery  expressed  in  her 
very  posture. 

"  A  woman,"  he  said  aloud.  "  What  woman,  I 
wonder.  This  is  not  the  time  for  any  woman  to 
be  sitting  here  alone." 

He  crossed  the  road  at  once,  and  going  to  the 
girl,  touched  her  lightly  on  the  shoulder. 

"  My  lass,"  he  said  good-naturedly,  "  what  ails 
you?" 

She  raised  her  head  slowly  as  if  she  were  dizzy 
and  bewildered.  Her  face  was  disfigured  by  a 
bruise,  and  on  one  temple  was  a  cut  from  which 
the  blood  trickled  down  her  cheek ;  but  the 
moonlight  showed  him  that  it  was  Joan,  He  re- 


THAT   LASS   O1    LOWRIE'S          13 

moved  his  hand  from  her  shoulder  and  drew  back 
a  pace. 

"You  have  been  hurt ! "  he  exclaimed. 

"  Aye,"  she  answered  deliberately,  "  I've  had  a 
hurt — a  bad  un." 

He  did  not  ask  her  how  she  had  been  hurt. 
He  knew  as  well  as  if  she  had  told  him,  that  it 
had  been  done  in  one  of  her  father's  fits  of 
drunken  passion.  He  had  seen  this  sort  of  thing 
before  during  his  sojourn  in  the  mining  districts. 
But,  shamefully  repulsive  as  it  had  been  to  him, 
he  had  never  felt  the  degradation  of  it  as  fiercely 
as  he  did  now. 

"  You  are  Joan  Lowrie  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Aye,  I'm  Joan  Lowrie,  if  it  '11  do  yo'  ony  good 
to  know." 

"  You  must  have  something  done  to  that  cut 
upon  your  temple." 

She  put  up  her  hand  and  wiped  the  blood 
away,  as  if  impatient  at  his  persistence. 

"  It  '11  do  well  enow  as  it  is,"  she  said. 

"  That  is  a  mistake,"  he  answered.  "  You  are 
losing  more  blood  than  you  imagine.  Will  you 
let  me  help  you?" 

She  stirred  uneasily. 

Derrick  took  no  notice  of  the  objection.  He 
drew  his  handkerchief  from  his  pocket,  and,  after 
some  little  effort,  managed  to  stanch  the  bleeding, 
and  having  done  so,  bound  the  wound  up.  Per- 


14         THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

haps  something  in  his  sympathetic  silence  and 
the  quiet  consideration  of  his  manner  touched 
Joan.  Her  face,  upturned  almost  submissively, 
for  the  moment  seemed  tremulous,  and  she  set 
her  lips  together.  She  did  not  speak  until  he  had 
finished,  and  then  she  rose  and  stood  before  him 
immovable  as  ever. 

"Thank  yo',"  she  said  in  a  suppressed  voice, 
"  I  canna  say  no  more." 

"  Never  mind  that,"  he  answered,  "  I  could 
have  done  no  less.  If  you  could  go  home 
now " 

"  I  shall  na  go  whoam  to  neet,"  she  interrupted 
him. 

"  You  cannot  remain  out  of  doors  1 "  he  ex 
claimed. 

"  If  I  do,  it  wunnot  be  th'  first  toime,"  meeting 
his  startled  glance  with  a  pride  which  defied  him 
to  pity  or  question  her.  But  his  sympathy  and 
interest  must  have  stirred  her,  for  the  next  min 
ute  her  manner  softened.  "  I've  done  it  often," 
she  added,  "an'  nowts  nivver  feared  me.  Yo' 
need  na  care,  Mester,  I'm  used  to  it." 

"  But  I  cannot  go  away  and  leave  you  here," 
he  said. 

"  You  canna  do  no  other,"  she  answered. 

"  Have  you  no  friends  ?  "  he  ventured  hesitat 
ingly. 

"  No,  I  ha'  not,"  she  said,  hardening  again,  and 


THAT  LASS  O'   LOWRIE'S         15 

she  turned  away  as  if  she  meant  to  end  the  dis 
cussion.  But  he  would  not  leave  her.  The  spirit 
of  determination  was  as  strong  in  his  character  as 
in  her  own.  He  tore  a  leaf  from  his  pocket-book, 
and,  writing  a  few  lines  upon  it,  handed  it  to  her. 
"  If  you  will  take  that  to  Thwaites'  wife,"  he  said, 
"  there  will  be  no  necessity  for  your  remaining 
out  of  doors  all  night." 

She  took  it  from  him  mechanically ;  but  when 
he  finished  speaking,  her  calmness  left  her.  Her 
hand  began  to  tremble,  and  then  her  whole  frame, 
and  the  next  instant  the  note  fell  to  the  ground, 
and  she  dropped  into  her  old  place  again,  sob* 
bing  passionately  and  hiding  her  face  on  her 
arms. 

"  I  wunnot  tak'  it ! "  she  cried.  "  I  wunnot  go 
no  wheer  an'  tell  as  I'm  turned  loike  a  dog  into 
th'  street." 

Her  misery  and  shame  shook  her  like  a  tern- 
pest.  But  she  subdued  herself  at  last. 

"  I  dunnot  see  as  yo'  need  care,"  she  protested 
half  resentfully.  "Other  folk  dunnot.  I'm  left 
to  mysen  most  o'  toimes."  Her  head  fell  again 
and  she  trembled  from  head  to  foot. 

"  But  I  do  care  !  "  he  returned.  "  I  cannot 
leave  you  here  and  will  not.  If  you  will  trust  me 
and  do  as  I  tell  you,  the  people  you  go  to  need 
know  nothing  you  do  not  choose  to  tell  them." 

It  was  evident  that  his  determination  made  her 


16         THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

falter,  and  seeing  this  he  followed  up  his  advan 
tage  and  so  far  improved  it  that  at  last,  after  a 
few  more  arguments,  she  rose  slowly  and  picked 
up  the  fallen  paper. 

"  If  I  mun  go,  I  mun,"  she  said,  twisting  it  ner 
vously  in  her  fingers,  and  then  there  was  a  pause, 
in  which  she  plainly  lingered  to  say  something, 
for  she  stood  before  him  with  a  restrained  air 
and  downcast  face.  She  broke  the  silence  herself, 
however,  suddenly  looking  up  and  fixing  her 
large  eyes  full  upon  him. 

"  If  I  was  a  lady,"  she  said,  "  happen  I  should 
know  what  to  say  to  yo' ;  but  bein'  what  I  am, 
I  dunnot.  Happen  as  yo're  a  gentleman  yo' 
know  what  I'd  loike  to  say  an'  canna — happen  yo' 
do." 

Even  as  she  spoke,  the  instinct  of  defiance  in 
her  nature  struggled  against  that  of  gratitude ; 
but  the  finer  instinct  conquered. 

"  We  will  not  speak  of  thanks,"  he  said.  "  I  may 
need  help  some  day,  and  come  to  you  for  it." 

"  If  yo'  ivver  need  help  at  th'  pit  will  yo'  come 
to  me  ?"  she  demanded.  "  I've  seen  th'  toime  as 
I  could  ha'  gi'en  help  to  th'  Hesters  ef  I'd  had  th' 
moind.  If  yo'll  promise  that " 

"  I  will  promise  it,"  he  answered  her. 

"  An'  I'll  promise  to  gi'  it  yo',"  eagerly.  "  So 
that's  settled.  Now  I'll  go  my  ways.  Good  neet 
to  yo'." 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S          17 

"  Good  night,"  he  returned,  and  uncovering 
with  as  grave  a  courtesy  as  he  might  have  shown 
to  the  finest  lady  in  the  land,  or  to  his  own 
mother  or  sister,  he  stood  at  the  road-side  and 
watched  her  until  she  was  out  of  sight 

2 


CHAPTER  U 


"  TH'  owd  lad's  been  at  his  tricks  again,"  was 
the  rough  comment  made  on  Joan  Lowrie's  ap 
pearance  when  she  came  down  to  her  work  the 
next  morning  ;  but  Joan  looked  neither  right  nor 
left,  and  went  to  her  place  without  a  word.  Not 
one  among  them  had  ever  heard  her  speak  of  her 
miseries  and  wrongs,  or  had  known  her  to  do 
otherwise  than  ignore  the  fact  that  their  ex 
istence  was  well  known  among  her  fellow-work 
ers. 

When  Derrick  passed  her  on  his  way  to  his 
duties,  she  looked  up  from  her  task  with  a  faint, 
quick  color,  and  replied  to  his  courteous  gesture 
with  a  curt  yet  not  ungracious  nod.  It  was  evi 
dent  that  not  even  her  gratitude  would  lead  her 
to  encourage  any  advances.  But,  notwithstand 
ing  this,  he  did  not  feel  repelled  or  disappointed. 
He  had  learned  enough  of  Joan,  in  their  brief  in 
terview,  to  prepare  him  to  expect  no  other  man 
ner  from  her.  He  was  none  the  less  interested  in 
the  girl  because  he  found  himself  forced  to  regard 
her  curiously  and  critically,  and  at  a  distance 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S          19 

He  watched  her  as  she  went  about  her  work, 
silent,  self-contained  and  solitary. 

"  That  lass  o'  Lowrie's ! "  said  a  superannuated 
old  collier  once,  in  answer  to  a  remark  of  Der 
rick's.  "  Eh  !  hoo's  a  rare  un,  hoo  is  !  Th'  fellys 
is  haaf  feart  on  her.  Tha'  sees  hoo's  getten  a  bit 
o'  skoolin'.  Hoo  con  read  a  bit,  if  tha'll  believe 
it,  Mester,"  with  a  touch  of  pride. 

"  Not  as  th'  owd  chap  ivver  did  owt  fur  her  i' 
that  road,"  the  speaker  went  on,  nothing  loath  to 
gossip  with  '  one  o'  th'  Mesters.'  "  He  nivver  did 
nowt  fur  her  but  spend  her  wage  i'  drink.  But 
theer  wur  a  neet  skoo'  here  a  few  years  sen',  an' 
th'  lass  went  her  ways  wi'  a  few  o'  th'  steady  uns, 
an'  they  say  as  she  getten  ahead  on  'em  aw,  so  as 
it  wur  a  wonder.  Just  let  her  set  her  mind  to  do 
owt  an'  she'll  do  it." 

"  Here,"  said  Derrick  to  Paul  that  night,  as  the 
engineer  leaned  back  in  his  easy  chair,  glowering 
at  the  grate  and  knitting  his  brows,  "  Here,"  he 
said,  "is  a  creature  with  the  majesty  of  a  Juno — 
though  really  nothing  but  a  girl  in  years — who 
rules  a  set  of  savages  by  the  mere  power  of  a 
superior  will  and  mind,  and  yet  a  woman  who 
works  at  the  mouth  of  a  coal-pit, — who  cannot 
write  her  own  name,  and  who  is  beaten  by  her 
fiend  of  a  father  as  if  she  were  a  dog.  Good 
Heaven !  what  is  she  doing  here  ?  What  does  it 
all  mean  ?  " 


20         THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

The  Reverend  Paul  put  up  his  delicate  hand 
deprecatingly. 

"  My  dear  Fergus,"  he  said,  "  if  I  dare — if  my 
own  life  and  the  lives  of  others  would  let  me — I 
think  I  should  be  tempted  to  give  it  up,  as  one 
gives  up  other  puzzles,  when  one  is  beaten  by 
them." 

Derrick  looked  at  him,  forgetting  himself  in  a 
sudden  sympathetic  comprehension. 

"  You  have  been  more  than  ordinarily  discour 
aged  to-day,"  he  said.  "  What  is  it,  Grace  ?  " 

"  Do  you  know  Sammy  Craddock  ?  "  was  the 
reply. 

" '  Owd  Sammy  Craddock'?"  said  Derrick 
with  a  laugh.  "Wasn't  it  'Owd  Sammy/  who 
was  talking  to  me  to-day  about  Joan  Lowrie  ?  " 

"  I  dare  say  it  was,"  sighing.  "  And  if  you 
know  Sammy  Craddock,  you  know  one  of  the 
principal  causes  of  my  discouragement.  I  went 
to  see  him  this  afternoon,  and  I  have  not  quite — • 
quite  got  over  it,  in  fact." 

Derrick's  interest  in  his  friend's  trials  was 
stirred  as  usual  at  the  first  signal  of  distress.  It 
was  the  part  of  his  stronger  and  more  evenly 
balanced  nature  to  be  constantly  ready  with  gen 
erous  sympathy  and  comtort. 

"  It  has  struck  me,"  he  said,  "  that  Craddock  is 
one  of  the  institutions  of  Riggan.  I  should  like 
to  hear  something  definite  concerning  him.  Why 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S         21 

is  he  your  principal  cause  of  discouragement,  in 
the  first  place  ?  " 

"  Because  he  is  the  man  of  all  others  whom  it  is 
hard  for  me  to  deal  with, — because  he  is  the 
shrewdest,  the  most  irreverent  and  the  most  dis 
putatious  old  fellow  in  Riggan.  And  yet,  in  the 
face  of  all  this,  because  he  is  so  often  right,  I  am 
forced  into  a  sort  of  respect  for  him." 

"Right!"  repeated  Derrick,  raising  his  eye 
brows,  "  That's  bad." 

Grace  rose  from  the  chair,  flushing  up  to  the 
roots  of  his  hair, — 

"  Right ! "  he  reiterated.  "  Yes,  right  I  say. 
And  how,  I  ask  you,  can  a  man  battle  against  the 
faintest  element  of  right  and  truth,  even  when  it 
will  and  must  arraign  itself  on  the  side  of  wrong  ? 
If  I  could  shut  my  eyes  to  the  right,  and  see  only 
the  wrong,  I  might  leave  myself  at  least  a  blind 
content,  but  I  cannot — I  cannot.  If  I  could  look 

upon  these  things  as  Barholm  does "  But 

here  he  stopped,  suddenly  checking  himself. 

"Thank  God  you  cannot,"  put  in  Derrick 
quietly. 

For  a  few  minutes  the  Reverend  Paul  paced  the 
room  in  silence. 

"  Among  the  men  who  were  once  his  fellow- 
workers,  Craddock  is  an  oracle,"  he  went  on. 
"  His  influence  is  not  unlike  Joan  Lowrie's.  It  is 
the  influence  of  a  strong  mind  over  weaker  ones. 


22         THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

His  sharp  sarcastic  speeches  are  proverbs  among 
the  Rigganites;  he  amuses  them  and  can  make 
them  listen  to  him.  When  he  holds  up  '  Th'  owd 
parson '  to  their  ridicule,  he  sweeps  all  before 
him.  He  can  undo  in  an  hour  what  I  have 
struggled  a  year  to  accomplish.  He  was  a  collier 
himself  until  he  became  superannuated,  and  he 
knows  their  natures,  you  see." 

"  What  has  he  to  say  about  Barholm  ?  "  asked 
Derrick — without  looking  at  his  friend,  however. 

"  Oh  ! "  he  protested,  "  that  is  the  worst  side  of 
it — that  is  miserable — that  is  wretched!  I  may 
as  well  speak  openly.  Barholm  is  his  strong  card, 
and  that  is  what  baffles  me.  He  scans  Barholm 
with  the  eye  of  an  eagle.  He  does  not  spare  a 
single  weakness.  He  studies  him — he  knows  his 
favorite  phrases  and  gestures  by  heart,  and  has 
used  them  until  there  is  not  a  Riggan  collier  who 
does  not  recognize  them  when  they  are  presented 
to  him,  and  applaud  them  as  an  audience  might 
applaud  the  staple  jokes  of  a  popular  actor." 

Explained  even  thus  far,  the  case  looked  diffi 
cult  enough ;  but  Derrick  felt  no  wonder  at  his 
friend's  discouragement  when  he  had  heard  his 
story  to  the  end,  and  understood  it  fully. 

The  living  at  Riggan  had  never  been  happily 
managed.  It  had  been  presented  to  men  who  did 
not  understand  the  people  under  their  charge, 
and  to  men  whom  the  people  failed  to  understand ; 


THAT   LASS  O'   LOWRIE'S         23 

but  possibly  it  had  never  before  fallen  into  the 
hands  of  a  man  who  was  so  little  qualified  to 
govern  Rigganites,  as  was  the  present  rector,  the 
Reverend  Harold  Barholm.  A  man  who  has 
mistaken  his  vocation,  and  who  has  become  ever 
so  faintly  conscious  of  his  blunder,  may  be  a 
stumbling-block  in  another's  path  ;  but  restrained 
as  he  will  be  by  his  secret  pangs  of  conscience, 
he  can  scarcely  be  an  active  obstructionist.  But 
a  man  who,  having  mistaken  the  field  of  his  life's 
labor,  yet  remains  amiably  self-satisfied,  and  un 
conscious  of  his  unfitness,  may  do  more  harm  in  his 
serene  ignorance  than  he  might  have  done  good 
if  he  had  chosen  his  proper  sphere.  Such  a  man 
as  the  last  was  the  Reverend  Harold.  A  good- 
natured,  broad-shouldered,  tactless,  self-sufficient 
person,  he  had  taken  up  his  work  with  a  compla 
cent  feeling  that  no  field  of  labor  could  fail  to  be 
benefited  by  his  patronage ;  he  was  content  now 
as  always.  He  had  been  content  with  himself  and 
his  intellectual  progress  at  Oxford ;  he  had  been 
content  with  his  first  parish  at  Ashley-wold ;  he 
had  been  content  then  with  the  gentle-natured, 
soft-spoken  Kentish  men  and  women;  he  had 
never  feared  finding  himself  unequal  to  the  guid 
ance  of  their  souls,  and  he  was  not  at  all  troubled 
by  the  prospect  Riggan  presented  to  him. 

"  It  is  a  different  sort  of  thing,"  he  said  to  his 
curate,  in  the  best  of  spirits,  "  and  new  to  us — new 


24         THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

of  course;  but  we  shall  get  over  that — we  shall 
get  over  that  easily  enough,  Grace." 

So  with  not  a  shadow  of  a  doubt  as  to  his  speedy 
success,  and  with  a  comfortable  confidence  in 
ecclesiastical  power,  in  whomsoever  vested,  he 
called  upon  his  parishioners  one  after  the  other. 
He  appeared  at  their  cottages  at  all  hours,  and 
gave  the  same  greeting  to  each  of  them.  He  was 
their  new  rector,  and  having  come  to  Riggan 
with  the  intention  of  doing  them  good,  and  im 
proving  their  moral  condition,  he  intended  to  do 
them  good,  and  improve  them,  in  spite  of  them 
selves.  They  must  come  to  church  :  it  was  their 
business  to  come  to  church,  as  it  was  his  business 
to  preach  the  gospel.  All  this  implied,  in  half  an 
hour's  half-friendly,  half-ecclesiastical  conversa 
tion,  garnished  with  a  few  favorite  texts  and  re 
ligious  platitudes,  and  the  man  felt  that  he  had 
done  his  duty,  and  done  it  well. 

Only  one  man  nonplussed  him,  and  even  this 
man's  effect  upon  him  was  temporary,  only  lasting 
as  long  as  his  call.  He  had  been  met  with  a 
dogged  resentment  in  the  majority  of  his  visits, 
but  when  he  encountered  '  Owd  Sammy  Crad- 
dock '  he  encountered  a  different  sort  of  opposi 
tion. 

"Aye,"  said  Owd  Sammy,  "an'  so  tha'rt  th' 
new  rector,  art  ta  ?  I  thowt  as  mich  as  another 
ud  spring  up  as  soon  as  th'  owd  un  wur  cut  down. 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S         25 

Tha  parsens  is  a  nettle  as  dunnot  soon  dee  oot. 
Well,  I'll  leave  thee  to  th'  owd  lass  here.  Hoo's 
a  rare  un  fur  gab  when  hoo'  taks  th'  notion,  an' 
I'm  noan  so  mich  i'  th'  humor  t'  argufy  mysen  to 
day."  And  he  took  his  pipe  from  the  mantel 
piece  and  strolled  out  with  an  imperturbable  air. 
But  this  was  not  the  last  of  the  matter.  The 
Rector  went  again  and  again,  cheerfully  persisting 
in  bringing  the  old  sinner  to  a  proper  sense  of  his 
iniquities.  There  would  be  some  triumph  in  con 
verting  such  a  veteran  as  Sammy  Craddock,  and 
he  was  confident  of  winning  this  laurel  for  him 
self.  But  the  result  was  scarcely  what  he  ex 
pected.  'Owd  Sammy'  stood  his  ground  like  an 
old  soldier.  The  fear  of  man  was  not  before  his 
eyes,  and 'parsens' were  his  favorite  game.  He 
was  as  contumacious  and  profane  as  such  men  are 
apt  to  be,  and  he  delighted  in  scattering  his  cler 
ical  antagonists  as  a  task  worthy  of  his  mettle. 
He  encountered  the  Reverend  Harold  with  posi 
tive  glee.  He  jeered  at  him  in  public,  and 
sneered  at  him  in  private,  and  held  him  up  to  the 
mockery  of  the  collier  men  and  lads,  with  the 
dramatic  mimicry  which  made  him  so  popular  a 
character.  As  Derrick  had  said,  Sammy  Crad 
dock  was  a  Riggan  institution.  In  his  youth,  his 
fellows  had  feared  his  strength ;  in  his  old  age 
they  feared  his  wit.  "  Let  Owd  Sammy  tackle 
him,"  they  said,  when  a  new-comer  was  disputa- 


z6         THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

tious,  and  hard  to  manage  ;  "  Owd  Sammy's  th' 
one  to  gi'  him  one  fur  his  nob.  Owd  Sammy'll 
fettle  him — graidely."  And  the  fact  was  that 
Craddock's  cantankerous  sharpness  of  brain  and 
tongue  were  usually  efficacious.  So  he  "  tackled  " 
Barholm,  and  so  he  "  tackled  "  the  curate.  But, 
for  some  reason,  he  was  never  actually  bitter 
against  Grace.  He  spoke  of  him  lightly,  and 
rather  sneered  at  his  physical  insignificance  ;  but 
he  did  not  hold  him  up  to  public  ridicule. 

"  I  hav'  not  quite  settled  i'  my  moind  about  th' 
little  chap,"  he  would  say  sententiously  to  his 
admirers.  "  He's  noan  siccan  a  foo'  as  th'  owd 
un,  for  he's  a  graidely  foo',  he  is,  and  no  mistake. 
At  any  rate  a  little  foo'  is  better  nor  a  big  un." 

And  there  the  matter  stood.  Against  these 
tremendous  odds  Grace  fought — against  coarse 
and  perverted  natures, — worse  than  all,  against 
the  power  that  should  have  been  ranged  upon  his 
side.  And  added  to  these  discouragements,  were 
the  obstacles  of  physical  delicacy,  and  an  almost 
morbid  conscientiousness.  A  man  of  coarser 
fibre  might  have  borne  the  burden  better — or  at 
least  with  less  pain  to  himself. 

"  A  drop  or  so  of  Barholm's  blood  in  Grace's 
veins,"  said  Derrick,  communing  with  himself  on 
the  Knoll  Road  after  their  interview — "  a  few 
drops  of  Barholm's  rich,  comfortable,  stupid 
blood  in  Grace's  veins  would  not  harm  him. 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S         27 

And  yet  it  would  have  to  be  but  a  few  drops  in 
deed,"  hastily.  "  On  the  whole  I  think  it  would 
be  better  if  he  had  more  blood  of  his  own." 

The  following  day  Miss  Barholm  came.  Busi 
ness  had  taken  Derrick  to  the  station  in  the 
morning,  and  being  delayed,  he  was  standing 
upon  the  platform  when  one  of  the  London  trains 
came  in.  There  were  generally  so  few  passen 
gers  on  such  trains  who  were  likely  to  stop  at 
Riggan,  that  the  few  who  did  so  were  of  some 
interest  to  the  bystanders.  Accordingly  he  stood 
gazing,  in  rather  a  preoccupied  fashion,  at  the 
carriages,  when  the  door  of  a  first-class  compart 
ment  opened,  and  a  girl  stepped  out  upon  the 
platform  near  him.  Before  seeing  her  face  one 
might  have  imagined  her  to  be  a  child  of  scarcely 
more  than  fourteen  or  fifteen.  This  was  Derrick's 
first  impression  ;  but  when  she  turned  toward  him 
he  saw  at  once  that  it  was  not  a  child.  And  yet 
it  was  a  small  face,  with  delicate  oval  features, 
smooth,  clear  skin,  and  stray  locks  of  hazel  brown 
hair  that  fell  over  the  low  forehead.  She  had 
evidently  made  a  journey  of  some  length,  for  she 
was  encumbered  with  travelling  wraps,  and  in  her 
hands  she  held  a  little  flower-pot  containing  a 
cluster  of  early  blue  violets, — such  violets  as  would 
not  bloom  so  far  north  as  Riggan  for  weeks  to 
come.  She  stood  upon  the  platform  for  a  moment 
or  so,  glancing  up  and  down  as  if  in  search  of 


28         THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

some  one,  and  then,  plainly  deciding  that  the  ob 
ject  of  her  quest  had  not  arrived,  she  looked  at 
Derrick  in  a  business-like,  questioning  way.  She 
was  going  to  speak  to  him.  The  next  minute  she 
stepped  forward  without  a  shadow  of  girlish  hesi 
tation. 

"  May  I  trouble  you  to  tell  me  where  I  can  find 
a  conveyance  of  some  sort  ?  "  she  said.  "  I  want  to 
go  to  the  Rectory." 

Derrick  uncovered,  recognizing  his  friend's 
picture  at  once. 

"  I  think,"  he  said  with  far  more  hesitancy  than 
she  had  herself  shown,  "  that  this  must  be  Miss 
Barholm." 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  "  Anice  Barholm.  I 
think,"  she  said,  "  from  what  Mr.  Grace  has  said 
to  me,  that  you  must  be  his  friend." 

"  I  am  one  of  Grace's  friends,"  he  answered, 
"  Fergus  Derrick." 

She  managed  to  free  one  of  her  small  hands,  and 
held  it  out  to  him. 

She  had  arrived  earlier  than  had  been  expected, 
it  turned  out,  and  through  some  mysterious 
chance  or  other,  her  letters  to  her  friends  had  not 
preceded  her,  so  there  was  no  carriage  in  waiting, 
and  but  for  Derrick  she  would  have  been  thrown 
entirely  upon  her  own  resources.  But  after  their 
mutual  introduction  the  two  were  friends  at  once, 
and  before  he  had  put  her  into  the  cab,  Derrick 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S         29 

had  begun  to  understand  what  it  was  that  led  the 
Reverend  Paul  to  think  her  an  exceptional  girl. 
She  knew  where  her  trunks  were,  and  was  quite 
definite  upon  the  subject  of  what  must  be  done 
with  them.  Though  pretty  and  frail  looking 
enough,  there  was  no  suggestion  of  helplessness 
about  her.  When  she  was  safely  seated  in  the 
cab,  she  spoke  to  Derrick  through  the  open  win 
dow. 

"  If  you  will  come  to  the  Rectory  to-night,  and 
let  papa  thank  you,"  she  said,  "  we  shall  all  be 
very  glad.  Mr.  Grace  will  be  there,  you  know, 
and  I  have  a  great  many  questions  to  ask  which  I 
think  you  must  be  able  to  answer." 

Derrick  went  back  to  his  work,  thinking  about 
Miss  Barholm,  of  course.  She  was  different  from 
other  girls,  he  felt,  not  only  in  her  fragile  frame 
and  delicate  face,  but  with  another  more  subtle 
and  less  easily  defined  difference.  There  was  a 
suggestion  of  the  development  in  a  child  of  the 
soul  of  a  woman. 

Going  down  to  the  mine,  Derrick  found  on  ap 
proaching  that  there  was  some  commotion  among 
the  workers  at  the  pit's  mouth,  and  before  he 
turned  in  to  his  office,  he  paused  upon  the  thresh 
old  for  a  few  minutes  to  see  what  it  meant.  But 
it  was  not  a  disturbance  with  which  it  was  easy 
for  an  outsider  to  interfere.  A  knot  of  women 
drawn  away  from  their  work  by  some  prevailing 


30         THAT  LASS  O'   LOWRIFS 

excitement,  were  gathered  together  around  a  girl 
— a  pretty  but  pale  and  haggard  creature,  with  a 
helpless,  despairing  face — who  stood  at  bay  in  the 
midst  of  them,  clasping  a  child  to  her  bosom — a 
target  for  all  eyes.  It  was  a  wretched  sight,  and 
told  its  own  story. 

"  Wheer  ha'  yo'  been,  Liz  ?  "  Derrick  heard  two 
or  three  voices  exclaim  at  once.  "  What  did  you 
coom  back  for  ?  This  is  what  thy  handsome  face 
has  browt  thee  to,  is  it  ?  " 

And  then  the  girl,  white,  wild-eyed  and  breath 
less  with  excitement,  turned  on  them,  panting, 
bursting  into  passionate  tears. 

"  Let  me  a-be : "  she  cried,  sobbing.  "  There's 
none  of  yo'  need  to  talk.  Let  me  a-be  !  I  didna 
coom  back  to  ax  nowt  fro'  none  on  you !  Eh  Joan ! 
Joan  Lowrie  ?  " 

Derrick  turned  to  ascertain  the  meaning  of  this 
cry  of  appeal,  but  almost  before  he  had  time  to 
do  so,  Joan  herself  had  borne  down  upon  the 
group ;  she  had  pushed  her  way  through  it,  and 
was  standing  in  the  centre,  confronting  the  girl's 
tormentors  in  a  flame  of  wrath,  and  Liz  was  cling 
ing  to  her. 

"What  ha*  they  been  sayin'  to  yo',  lass?"  she 
demanded.  "  Eh  !  but  yo're  a  brave  lot,  yo'  are 
— women  yo'  ca'  yo'rsens ! — badgerin'  a  slip  o'  a 
wench  loike  this." 

"  I  did  na  coom  back  to  ax  nowt  fro'  noan  o1 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S         31 

them,"  sobbed  the  girl.  "  I'd  rayther  dee  ony  day 
nor  do  it !  I'd  rayther  starve  i'  th'  ditch — an'  it's 
comin'  to  that." 

"  Here,"  said  Joan,  "  gi'  me  th'  choild." 

She  bent  down  and  took  it  from  her,  and  then 
stood  up  before  them  all,  holding  it  high  in  her 
strong  arms — so  superb,  so  statuesque,  and  yet  so 
womanly  a  figure,  that  a  thrill  shot  through  the 
heart  of  the  man  watching  her. 

"Lasses,"  she  cried,  her  voice  fairly  ringing, 
"  do  yo'  see  this  ?  A  bit  o'  a  helpless  thing  as 
canna  answer  back  yo're  jeers !  Aye  !  look  at  it 
well,  aw'  on  yo'.  Some  on  yo's  getten  th'  loike  at 
whoam.  An'  when  yo've  looked  at  th'  choild,  look 
at  th'  mother!  Seventeen  year  owd,  Liz  is,  an'  th' 
world's  gone  wrong  wi'  her.  I  wunnot  say  as  th* 
world's  gone  ower  reet  wi'  ony  on  us ;  but  them 
on  us  as  has  had  th'  strength  to  howd  up  agen  it, 
need  na  set  our  foot  on  them  as  has  gone  down. 
Happen  theer's  na  so  much  to  choose  betwixt  us 
after  aw.  But  I've  gotten  this  to  tell  yo' — them 
as  has  owt  to  say  o'  Liz,  mun  say  it  to  Joan  Low- 
rie ! " 

Rough,  and  coarsely  pitiless  as  the  majority  of 
them  were,  she  had  touched  the  right  chord.  Per 
haps  the  bit  of  the  dramatic  in  her  championship 
of  the  girl  had  as  much  to  do  with  the  success  of 
her  half -commanding  appeal  as  anything  else. 
But  at  least,  the  most  hardened  of  them  faltered 


32         THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

before  her  daring,  scornful  words,  and  the  fire  in 
her  face.  Liz  would  be  safe  enough  from  them 
henceforth,  it  was  plain. 

That  evening  while  arranging  his  papers  before 
going  home,  Derrick  was  called  from  his  work  by 
a  summons  at  the  office  door,  and  going  to  open 
it,  he  found  Joan  Lowrie  standing  there,  looking 
half  abashed,  half  determined. 

"  I  ha'  summat  to  ax  yo',"  she  said  briefly,  de 
clining  his  invitation  to  enter  and  be  seated. 

"  If  there  is  anything  I  can  do  for — "  began 
Derrick. 

"  It  is  na  mysen,"  she  interrupted  him.  "  There 
is  a  poor  lass  as  I'm  fain  to  help,  if  I  could  do  it, 
but  I  ha'  not  th'  power.  I  dunnot  know  of  any 
one  as  has,  except  yo'rsen  and  th'  parson,  an'  I 
know  more  o'  yo'  than  I  do  o'  th'  parson,  so  I 
thowt  I'd  ax  yo'  to  speak  to  him  about  th'  poor 
wench,  an  ax  him  if  he  could  get  her  a  bit  o' 
work  as  ud  help  to  keep  her  honest." 

Derrick  looked  at  her  handsome  face  gravely, 
curiously. 

"  I  saw  you  defend  this  girl  against  some  of  her 
old  companions,  a  few  hours  ago,  I  believe,"  he 
said. 

She  colored,  but  did  not  return  his  glance. 

"  I  dunnot  believe  in  harryin'  women  down  th' 
hill,"  she  said. 

Then,  suddenly,  she  raised  her  eyes. 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S         33 

"  Th'  little  un  is  a  little  lass,"  she  said,  "  an'  I 
canna  bide  th'  thowt  o'  what  moight  fa'  on  her  if 
her  mother's  life  is  na  an  honest  un — I  canna  bide 
the  thowt  on  it." 

"  I  will  see  my  friend  to-night,"  said  Derrick, 
"  and  I  will  speak  to  him.  Where  can  he  find  the 
girl?" 

"  Wi'  me,"  she  answered.  "  I'm  taken  both  on 
'em  whoam  wi'  me." 


CHAPTER  III 
The  Reverend  Harold  Barbolm 

WHEN  the  Rever-end  Paul  entered  the  parlor  at 
the  Rectory,  he  found  that  his  friend  had  arrived 
before  him.  Mr.  Barholm,  his  wife  and  Anice, 
with  their  guest,  formed  a  group  around  the  fire, 
and  Grace  saw  at  a  glance  that  Derrick  had  un 
consciously  fallen  into  the  place  of  the  centre 
figure.  He  was  talking  and  the  others  were  lis 
tening — Mr.  Barholm  in  his  usual  restless  fashion, 
Mrs.  Barholm  with  evident  interest,  Anice  leaning 
forward  on  her  ottoman,  listening  eagerly. 

"  Ah !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Barholm,  when  the  ser 
vant  announced  the  visitor,  "this  is  fortunate. 
Here  is  Grace.  Glad  to  see  you,  Grace.  Take  a 
seat.  We  are  talking  about  an  uncommonly  in 
teresting  case.  I  dare  say  you  know  the  young 
woman." 

Anice  looked  up. 

"  We  are  talking  about  Joan  Lowrie,"  she  said. 
"  Mr.  Derrick  is  telling  us  about  her." 

"Most  interesting  affair  —  from  beginning  to 
end,"  continued  the  Rector,  briskly.  "  Something 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S         35 

must  be  done  for  the  young  woman.  We  must 
go  and  see  her, — I  will  go  and  see  her  myself." 

He  had  caught  fire  at  once,  in  his  usual  incon 
sequent,  self-secure  style.  Ecclesiastical  patron 
age  would  certainly  set  this  young  woman  right 
at  once.  There  was  no  doubt  of  that.  And  who 
was  so  well  qualified  to  bestow  it  as  himself  ? 

"  Yes,  yes !  I  will  go  myself,"  he  said.  "  That 
kind  of  people  is  easily  managed,  when  once  one 
understands  them.  There  really  is  some  good  in 
them,  after  all.  You  see,  Grace,  it  is  as  I  have 
told  you — only  understand  them,  and  make  them 
understand  you,  and  the  rest  is  easy." 

Derrick  glanced  from  father  to  daughter.  The 
clear  eyes  of  the  girl  rested  on  the  man  with  a 
curious  expression. 

"  Do  you  think,"  she  said  quickly,  "  that  they 
like  us  to  go  and  see  them  in  that  sort  of  way, 
papa?  Do  you  think  it  is  wise  to  remind  them 
that  we  know  more  than  they  do,  and  that  if  they 
want  to  learn  they  must  learn  from  us,  just  because 
we  have  been  more  fortunate  ?  It  really  seems  to 
me  that  the  rebellious  ones  would  ask  themselves 
what  right  we  had  to  be  more  fortunate." 

"  My  dear,"  returned  the  Rector,  somewhat 
testily — he  was  not  partial  to  the  interposition  of 
obstacles  even  in  suggestion — "  My  dear,  if  you 
had  been  brought  into  contact  with  these  people 
as  closely  as  I  have,  or  even  as  Grace  has,  you 


36         THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

would  learn  that  they  are  not  prone  to  regard 
things  from  a  metaphysical  stand-point.  Meta 
physics  are  not  in  their  line.  They  are  more  apt 
to  look  upon  life  as  a  matter  of  bread  and  bacon 
than  as  a  problem." 

A  shadow  fell  upon  Anice's  face,  and  before  the 
visit  ended,  Derrick  had  observed  its  presence 
more  than  once.  It  was  always  her  father  who 
summoned  it,  he  noticed.  And  yet  it  was  evi 
dent  enough  that  she  was  fond  of  the  man,  and 
in  no  ordinary  degree,  and  that  the  affection  was 
mutual.  As  he  was  contented  with  himself,  so 
Barholm  was  contented  with  his  domestic  rela 
tions.  He  was  fond  of  his  wife,  and  fond  of 
his  daughter,  as  much,  perhaps,  through  his  ap 
preciation  of  his  own  good  taste  in  wedding  such 
a  wife,  and  becoming  the  father  of  such  a  daugh 
ter,  as  through  his  appreciation  of  their  peculiar 
charms.  He  was  proud  of  them  and  indulgent 
to  them.  They  reflected  a  credit  on  him  of 
which  he  felt  himselt  wholly  deserving. 

"  They  are  very  fond  of  him,"  remarked  Grace 
afterward  to  his  friend  ;  "  which  shows  that  there 
must  be  a  great  deal  of  virtue  in  the  man.  In 
deed  there  is  a  great  deal  of  virtue  in  him.  You 
yourself,  Derrick,  must  have  observed  a  certain 
kindliness  and — and  open  generosity,"  with  a 
wistful  sound  in  his  voice. 

There  was  always    this  wistful   appeal   in  the 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S         37 

young  man's  tone  when  he  spoke  of  his  clerical 
master — a  certain  anxiety  to  make  the  best  of 
him,  and  refrain  from  any  suspicion  of  condemna 
tion.  Derrick  was  always  reminded  by  it  of  the 
shadow  on  Anice's  face. 

"  I  want  to  tell  you  something,"  Miss  Barholm 
said  this  evening  to  Grace  at  parting.  "  I  do  not 
think  I  am  afraid  of  Riggan  at  all.  I  think  I 
shall  like  it  all  the  better  because  it  is  so  new. 
Everything  is  so  earnest  and  energetic,  that  it  is 
a  little  bracing — like  the  atmosphere.  Perhaps — 
when  the  time  comes — I  could  do  something  to 
help  you  with  that  girl.  I  shall  try  at  any  rate." 
She  held  out  her  hand  to  him  with  a  smile, 
and  the  Reverend  Paul  went  home  feeling  not  a 
little  comforted  and  encouraged. 

The  Rector  stood  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  his 
portly  person  expressing  intense  satisfaction. 

"  You  will  remind  me  about  that  young  woman 
in  the  morning,  Anice,"  he  said.  "  I  should  like 
to  attend  to  the  matter  myself.  Singular  that 
Grace  should  not  have  mentioned  her  before.  It 
really  seems  to  me,  you  know,  that  now  and  then 
Grace  is  a  little  deficient  in  interest,  or  energy." 

"  Surely  not  interest,  my  dear,"  suggested  Mrs. 
Barholm,  gently. 

"Well,  well,"  conceded  the  Rector,  "perhaps 
not  interest,  but  energy  or — or  appreciation.  I 
should  have  seen  such  a  fine  creature's  superior- 


38         THAT   LASS  O'   LOWRIE'S 

ity,  and  mentioned  it  at  once.  She  must  be  a  fine 
creature.  A  young  woman  of  that  kind  should 
be  encouraged.  I  will  go  and  see  her  in  the 
morning — if  it  were  not  so  late  I  would  go  now. 
Really,  she  ought  to  be  told  that  she  has  exhibited 
a  very  excellent  spirit,  and  that  people  approve 
of  it.  I  wonder  what  sort  of  a  household  servant 
she  would  make  if  she  were  properly  trained?" 

"That  would  not  do  at  all,"  put  in  Anice,  deci 
sively.  "From  the  pit's  mouth  to  the  kitchen 
would  not  be  a  natural  transition." 

"Well,  well,  as  usual,  perhaps  you  are  right. 
There  is  plenty  of  time  to  think  of  it,  however. 
We  can  judge  better  when  we  have  seen  her." 

He  did  not  need  reminding  in  the  morning. 
He  was  as  full  of  vague  plans  for  Joan  Lowrie 
when  he  arose  as  he  had  been  when  he  went  to 
bed.  He  came  down  to  the  charming  breakfast- 
room  in  the  most  sanguine  of  moods.  But  then 
his  moods  usually  were  sanguine.  It  was  scarcely 
to  be  wondered  at.  Fortune  had  treated  him 
with  great  suavity  from  his  earliest  years.  Well 
born,  comfortably  trained,  healthy  and  easy- 
natured,  the  world  had  always  turned  its  pleasant 
side  to  him.  As  a  young  man,  he  had  been  a 
strong,  handsome  fellow,  whose  convenient  patri 
mony  had  placed  him  beyond  the  possibility  of 
entire  dependence  upon  his  profession.  When  a 
curate  he  had  been  well  enough  paid  and  without 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S         39 

private  responsibilities ;  when  he  married  he  was 
lucky  enough  to  win  a  woman  who  added  to  his 
comfort;  in  fact,  life  had  gone  smoothly  with 
him  for  so  long  that  he  had  no  reason  to  suspect 
Fate  of  any  intention  to  treat  him  ill-naturedly. 
It  was  far  more  likely  that  she  would  reserve  her 
scurvy  tricks  for  some  one  else. 

Even  Riggan  had  not  perplexed  him  at  all.  Its 
difficulties  were  not  such  as  would  be  likely  to 
disturb  him  greatly.  One  found  ignorance,  and 
vice,  and  discomfort  among  the  lower  classes 
always;  there  was  the  same  thing  to  contend 
against  in  the  agricultural  as  in  the  mining  dis 
tricts.  And  the  Rectory  was  substantial  and 
comfortable,  even  picturesque.  The  house  was 
roomy,  the  garden  large  and  capable  of  improve 
ment  ;  there  were  trees  in  abundance,  ivy  on  the 
walls,  and  Anice  would  do  the  rest.  The  break 
fast-room  looked  specially  encouraging  this  morn 
ing.  Anice,  in  a  pretty  pale  blue  gown,  and  with 
a  few  crocuses  at  her  throat,  awaited  his  coming 
behind  the  handsomest  of  silver  and  porcelain, 
reading  his  favorite  newspaper  the  while.  Her 
little  pot  of  emigrant  violets  exhaled  a  faint, 
spring-like  odor  from  their  sunny  place  at  the 
window ;  there  was  a  vase  of  crocuses,  snow-drops 
and  ivy  leaves  in  the  centre  of  the  table ;  there 
was  sunshine  outside  and  comfort  in.  The  Rec 
tor  had  a  good  appetite  and  an  unimpaired  diges- 


40         THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

tion.  Anice  rose  when  he  entered,  and  touched 
the  bell. 

"  Mamma's  headache  will  keep  her  upstairs  for 
a  while,"  she  said.  "  She  told  me  we  were  not  to 
wait  for  her."  And  then  she  brought  him  his 
newspaper  and  kissed  him  dutifully. 

"  Very  glad  to  see  you  home  again,  I  am  sure, 
my  dear,"  remarked  the  Rector.  "  I  have  really 
missed  you  very  much.  What  excellent  coffee 
this  is ! — another  cup,  if  you  please."  And,  after 
a  pause, 

"I  think  really,  you  know,"  he  proceeded, 
"  that  you  will  not  find  the  place  unpleasant,  after 
all.  For  my  part,  I  think  it  is  well  enough — for 
such  a  place ;  one  cannot  expect  Belgravian  polish 
in  Lancashire  miners,  and  certainly  one  does  not 
meet  with  it ;  but  it  is  well  to  make  the  best  of 
things.  I  get  along  myself  reasonably  well  with 
the  people.  I  do  not  encounter  the  difficulties 
Grace  complains  of." 

"  Does  he  complain  ?  "  asked  Anice  ;  "  I  did  not 
think  he  exactly  complained." 

"  Grace  is  too  easily  discouraged,"  answered 
the  Rector  in  off-handed  explanation.  "  And  he 
is  apt  to  make  blunders.  He  speaks  of,  and  to, 
these  people  as  if  they  were  of  the  same  fibre  as 
himself.  He  does  not  take  hold  of  things.  He  is 
deficient  in  courage.  He  means  well,  but  he  is 
not  good  at  reading  character.  That  other  young 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S         41 

fellow  now — Derrick,  the  engineer — would  do 
twice  as  well  in  his  place.  What  do  you  think  of 
that  young  fellow,  by  the  way,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  I  like  him,"  said  Anice.  "  He  will  help  Mr. 
Grace  often." 

"  Grace  needs  a  support  of  some  kind,"  re 
turned  Mr.  Barholm,  frowning  slightly,  "  and  he 
does  not  seem  to  rely  very  much  upon  me — not 
so  much  as  I  would  wish.  I  don't  quite  under., 
stand  him  at  times ;  the  fact  is,  it  has  struck  me 
once  or  twice,  that  he  preferred  to  take  his  own 
path,  instead  of  following  mine." 

"  Papa,"  commented  Anice,  "  I  scarcely  think 
he  is  to  blame  for  that.  I  am  sure  it  is  always 
best,  that  conscientious,  thinking  people — and 
Mr.  Grace  is  a  thinking  man — should  have  paths 
of  their  own." 

Mr.  Barholm  pushed  his  hair  from  his  forehead. 
His  own  obstinacy  confronted  him  sometimes 
through  Anice  in  a  finer,  more  baffling  form. 

"  Grace  is  a  young  man,  my  dear,"  he  said, 
"  and — and  not  a  very  strong-minded  one." 

"  I  cannot  believe  that  is  true,"  said  Anice.  "  I 
do  not  think  we  can  blame  his  mind.  It  is  his 
body  that  is  not  strong.  Mr.  Grace  himself  has 
more  power  than  you  and  mamma  and  myself  all 
put  together." 

One  of  Alice's  peculiarities  was  a  certain  pretty 
sententiousness,  which,  but  for  its  innate  refine- 


42         THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

ment,  and  its  sincerity,  might  have  impressed 
people  as  being  a  fault.  When  she  pushed  her 
opposition  in  that  steady,  innocent  way,  Mr.  Bar- 
holm  always  took  refuge  behind  an  inner  con 
sciousness  which  "  knew  better,"  and  was  fully 
satisfied  on  the  point  of  its  own  knowledge. 

When  breakfast  was  over,  he  rose  from  the 
table  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  had  business  on 
hand.  Anice  rose  too,  and  followed  him  to  the 
hearth. 

"  You  are  going  out,  I  suppose,"  she  said. 

"  I  am  going  to  see  Joan  Lowrie,"  he  said  com 
placently.  "  And  I  have  several  calls  to  make  be 
sides.  Shall  I  tell  the  young  woman  that  you 
will  call  on  her?" 

Anice  looked  down  at  the  foot  she  had  placed 
on  the  shining  rim  of  the  steel  fender. 

"  Joan  Lowrie  ?  "  she  said  reflectively. 

"  Certainly,  my  dear.  I  should  think  it  would 
please  the  girl  to  feel  that  we  are  interested  in 
her." 

"  I  should  scarcely  think  —  from  what  Mr. 
Grace  and  his  friend  say — that  she  is  the  kind  of 
a  girl  to  be  reached  in  that  way,"  said  Anice. 

The  Rector  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  My  dear,"  he  answered,  "  if  we  are  always  to 
depend  upon  what  Grace  says,  we  shall  often  find 
ourselves  in  a  dilemma.  If  you  are  going  to  wait 
until  these  collier  young  women  call  on  you  after 


THAT   LASS  O'   LOWRIE'S         43 

the  manner  of  polite  society,  I  am  afraid  you  will 
have  time  to  lose  interest  in  them  and  their 
affairs." 

He  had  no  scruples  of  his  own  on  the  subject 
of  his  errand.  He  felt  very  comfortable  as  usual, 
as  he  wended  his  way  through  the  village  toward 
Lowrie's  cottage,  on  the  Knoll  Road.  He  did 
not  ask  himself  what  he  should  say  to  the  collier 
young  woman,  and  her  unhappy  charge.  Ortho 
dox  phrases  with  various  distinct  flavors — the  fla 
vor  of  encouragement,  the  flavor  of  reproof,  the 
flavor  of  consolation, — were  always  ready  with 
the  man ;  he  never  found  it  necessary  to  prepare 
them  beforehand.  The  flavor  of  approval  was  to 
be  Joan's  portion  this  morning ;  the  flavor  of  re 
buke  her  companion's.  He  passed  down  the 
street  with  ecclesiastical  dignity,  bestowing  a 
curt,  but  not  unamiable  word  of  recognition  here 
and  there.  Unkempt,  dirty-faced  children,  play 
ing  hop-scotch  or  marbles  on  the  flag  pavement, 
looked  up  at  him  with  a  species  of  awe,  not  un- 
mingled  with  secret  resentment;  women  lounging 
on  door-steps,  holding  babies  on  their  hips,  stared 
in  critical  sullenness  as  he  went  by. 

"Theer's  th'  owd  parson,"  commented  one 
sharp-tongued  matron.  "Hoo's  goin'  to  teach 
some  one  summat,  I  warrant  What  th'  owd  lad 
dunnot  know  is  na  worth  knowin'.  Eh !  hoo's  a 
graidely  foo',  that  hoo  is.  Our  Tommy,  if  the 


44         THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

dost  na  let  Jane  Ann  be,  tha'lt  be  gettin'  a 
hidin'." 

Unprepossessing  as  most  of  the  colliers'  homes 
were,  Lowrie's  cottage  was  a  trifle  less  inviting 
than  the  majority.  It  stood  upon  the  roadside, 
an  ugly  little  bare  place,  with  a  look  of  stubborn 
desolation,  its  only  redeeming  feature  a  certain 
rough  cleanliness.  The  same  cleanliness  reigned 
inside,  Barholm  observed  when  he  entered;  and 
yet  on  the  whole  there  was  a  stamp  upon  it 
which  made  it  a  place  scarcely  to  be  approved  of. 
Before  the  low  fire  sat  a  girl  with  a  child  on  her 
knee,  and  this  girl,  hearing  the  visitor's  footsteps, 
got  up  hurriedly,  and  met  him  with  a  half  abashed, 
half  frightened  look  on  her  pale  face. 

"  Lowrie  is  na  here,  an'  neyther  is  Joan,"  she 
said,  without  waiting  for  him  to  speak.  "  Both 
on  'em's  at  th'  pit.  Theer's  no  one  here  but  me," 
and  she  held  the  baby  over  her  shoulder,  as  if 
she  would  like  to  have  hidden  it. 

Mr.  Barholm  walked  in  serenely,  sure  that  he 
ought  to  be  welcome,  if  he  were  not. 

"At  the  pit,  are  they?"  he  answered.  "Dear 
me !  I  might  have  remembered  that  they  would 
be  at  this  time.  Well,  well;  I  will  take  a  seat, 
my  girl,  and  talk  to  you  a  little.  I  suppose  you 
know  me,  the  minister  at  the  church — Mr.  Bar- 
holm  ?  " 

Liz,  a  slender  slip  of  a  creature,  large-eyed,  and 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S         45 

woe-begone,  stood  up  before  him,  staring  at  him 
irresolutely  as  he  seated  himself. 

"I — I  dunnot  know  nobody  much  now,"  she 
stammered.  "  I — I've  been  away  fro'  Riggan  sin' 
afore  yo'  comn — if  yo're  th'  new  parson,"  and 
then  she  colored  nervously  and  became  fearfully 
conscious  of  her  miserable  little  burden,  "I've 
heerd  Joan  speak  o'  th'  young  parson,"  she 
faltered. 

Her  visitor  looked  at  her  gravely.  What  a 
helpless,  childish  creature  she  was,  with  her 
pretty  face,  and  her  baby,  and  her  characterless, 
frightened  way.  She  was  only  one  of  many — 
poor  Liz,  ignorant,  emotional,  weak,  easily  led, 
ready  to  err,  unable  to  bear  the  consequences  of 
error,  not  strong  enough  to  be  resolutely  wicked, 
not  strong  enough  to  be  anything  in  particular, 
but  that  which  her  surroundings  made  her.  If 
she  had  been  well-born  and  well  brought  up,  she 
would  have  been  a  pretty,  insipid  girl,  who  needed 
to  be  taken  care  of;  as  it  was,  she  had  "gone 
wrong."  The  excellent  Rector  of  St.  Michael's 
felt  that  she  must  be  awakened. 

"You  are  the  girl  Elizabeth?"  he  said. 

"  I'm  'Lizabeth  Barnes,"  she  answered,  pulling 
at  the  hem  of  her  child's  small  gown,  "  but  folks 
nivver  calls  me  nowt  but  Liz." 

Her  visitor  pointed  to  a  chair  considerately. 
"  Sit  down,"  he  said,  "  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 


46         THAT  LASS  O'  LOWRIE'S 

Liz  obeyed  him ;  but  her  pretty,  weak  face  told 
its  own  story  of  distaste  and  hysterical  shrink 
ing.  She  let  the  baby  lie  upon  her  lap;  her 
fingers  were  busy  plaiting  up  folds  of  the  little 
gown. 

"  I  dunnot  want  to  be  talked  to,"  she  whim 
pered.  "  I  dunnot  know  as  talk  can  do  folk  as  is 
i'  trouble  any  good — an'  th'  trouble's  bad  enow 
wi'out  talk." 

"We  must  remember  whence  the  trouble 
comes,"  answered  the  minister,  "and  if  the  root 
lies  in  ourselves,  and  springs  from  our  own  sin, 
we  must  bear  our  cross  meekly,  and  carry  our 
sorrows  and  iniquities  to  the  fountain  head.  We 
must  ask  for  grace,  and — and  sanctification  of 
spirit." 

"  I  dunnot  know  nowt  about  th'  fountain 
head,"  sobbed  Liz  aggrieved.  "I  amna  relig 
ious  an'  I  canna  see  as  such  loike  helps  foak. 
No  Methody  nivver  did  nowt  for  me  when  I 
war  i'  trouble  an'  want.  Joan  Lowrie  is  na  a 
Methody." 

"  If  you  mean  that  the  young  woman  is  in  an 
unawakened  condition,  I  am  sorry  to  hear  it," 
with  increased  gravity  of  demeanor.  "Without 
the  redeeming  blood  how  are  we  to  find  peace? 
If  you  had  clung  to  the  Cross  you  would  have 
been  spared  all  this  sin  and  shame.  You  must 
know,  my  girl,  that  this,"  with  a  motion  toward 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S         47 

the  frail  creature  on  her  knee,  "  is  a  very  terrible 
thing." 

Liz  burst  into  piteous  sobs — crying  like  an 
abused  child: 

"  I  know  it's  hard  enow,"  she  cried ;  "  I  canna 
get  work  neyther  at  th'  pit  nor  at  th'  factories,  as 
long  as  I  mun  drag  it  about,  an*  I  ha'  not  got  a 
place  to  lay  my  head,  on'y  this.  If  it  wur  na  for 
Joan,  I  might  starve,  and  the  choild  too.  But  I'm 
noan  so  bad  as  yo'd  mak'  out.  I — I  wur  very 
fond  o'  him — I  wur,  an'  I  thowt  he  wur  fond  o' 
me,  an'  he  wur  a  gentleman  too.  He  were  no 
laboring-man,  an'  he  wur  kind  to  me,  until  he  got 
tired.  Them  sort  allus  gets  tired  o'  yo'  i'  time, 
Joan  says.  I  wish  I'd  ha'  towd  Joan  at  first,  an' 
axed  her  what  to  do." 

Barholm  passed  his  hand  through  his  hair  un 
easily.  This  shallow,  inconsequent  creature  baf 
fled  him.  Her  shame,  her  grief,  her  misery, 
were  all  mere  straws  eddying  on  the  pool  of  her 
discomfort.  It  was  not  her  sin  that  crushed  her, 
it  was  the  consequence  of  it ;  hers  was  not  a  sor 
row,  it  was  a  petulant  unhappiness.  If  her  lot 
had  been  prosperous  outwardly,  she  would  have 
felt  no  inward  pang. 

It  became  more  evident  to  him  than  ever  that 
something  must  be  done,  and  he  applied  himself 
to  his  task  of  reform  to  the  best  of  his  ability. 
But  he  exhausted  his  repertory  of  sonorous 


48         THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

phrases  in  vain.  His  grave  exhortations  only 
called  forth  fresh  tears,  and  a  new  element  of  re 
sentment;  and,  to  crown  all,  his  visit  terminated 
with  a  discouragement  of  which  his  philosophy 
had  never  dreamed. 

Jn  the  midst  of  his  most  eloquent  reproof,  a 
shadow  darkened  the  threshold,  and  as  Liz 
looked  up  with  the  explanation — "Joan!"  a 
young  woman,  in  pit  girl  guise,  came  in,  her  hat 
pushed  off  her  forehead,  her  throat  bare,  her  fus 
tian  jacket  hanging  over  her  arm.  She  glanced 
from  one  to  the  other  questioningly,  knitting  her 
brows  slightly  at  the  sight  of  Liz's  tears.  In 
answer  to  her  glance  Liz  spoke  querulously. 

"  It's  th'  parson,  Joan,"  she  said.  "  He  comn  to 
talk  like  th'  rest  on  'em  an'  he  maks  me  out  too 
ill  to  burn." 

Just  at  that  moment  the  child  set  up  a  fretful 
cry  and  Joan  crossed  the  room  and  took  it  up  in 
her  arms. 

"  Yo've  feart  th'  choild  betwixt  yo',"  she  said, 
"  if  yo've  managed  to  do  nowt  else." 

"  I  felt  it  my  duty  as  Rector  of  the  parish,"  ex* 
plained  Barholm  somewhat  curtly,  "  I  felt  it  my 
duty  as  Rector  of  the  parish,  to  endeavor  to 
bring  your  friend  to  a  proper  sense  of  her  posi 
tion." 

Joan  turned  toward  him. 

"  Has  tha  done  it?"  she  asked. 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S         49 

The  Reverend  Harold  felt  his  enthusiasm  con 
cerning  the  young  woman  dying  out. 

"  I — I — "  he  stammered. 

Joan  interrupted  him. 

"Dost  tha  see  as  tha  has  done  her  any  good?" 
she  demanded.  "  I  dunnot  mysen." 

"  I  have  endeavored  to  the  best  of  my  ability  to 
improve  her  mental  condition,"  the  minister  re 
plied. 

"  I  thowt  as  much,"  said  Joan ;  "  I  mak'  no 
doubt  tha'st  done  thy  best,  neyther.  Happen 
tha'st  gi'en  her  what  comfort  tha  had  to  spare, 
but  if  yo'd  been  wiser  than  yo'  are,  yo'd  ha'  let 
her  alone.  I'll  warrant  theer  is  na  a  parson  'twixt 
here  an*  Lunnon,  that  could  na  ha'  towd  her  that 
she's  a  sinner  an'  has  shame  to  bear;  but  hap 
pen  theer  is  na  a  parson  'twixt  here  an'  Lunnon 
as  she  could  na  ha'  towd  that  much  to,  hersen. 
Howivver,  as  tha  has  said  thy  say,  happen  it  11 
do  yo'  fur  this  toime,  an'  yo'  can  let  her  be  for  a 
while." 

Mr.  Barholm  was  unusually  silent  during  din 
ner  that  evening,  and  as  he  sat  over  his  wine,  his 
dissatisfaction  rose  to  the  surface,  as  it  invariably 
did. 

"  I  am  rather  disturbed  this  evening,  Anice," 
he  said. 

Anice  looked  up  questioningly. 

"Why? "she  asked. 

4 


50         THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

"  I  went  to  see  Joan  Lowrie  this  morning,"  he 
answered  hesitatingly,  "and  I  am  very  much  dis 
appointed  in  her.  I  scarcely  think,  after  all,  that 
I  would  advise  you  to  take  her  in  hand.  She  is 
not  an  amiable  young  woman.  In  fact  there  is  a 
positive  touch  of  the  vixen  about  her." 


CHAPTER  IV 

"Love  Me,  Love  My  Dog" 

MR.  BARHOLM  had  fallen  into  the  habit  of  turn- 
ing  to  Anice  for  it,  when  he  required  information 
concerning  people  and  things.  In  her  desultory 
pilgrimages,  Anice  saw  all  that  he  missed,  and 
heard  much  that  he  was  deaf  to.  The  rough, 
hard-faced  men  and  boisterous  girls  who  passed 
to  and  from  their  work  at  the  mine,  drew  her  to 
the  window  whenever  they  made  their  appear 
ance.  She  longed  to  know  something  definite  of 
them — to  get  a  little  nearer  to  their  unprepossess 
ing  life.  Sometimes  the  men  and  women,  passing, 
caught  glimpses  of  her,  and,  asking  each  other 
who  she  was,  decided  upon  her  relationship  to 
the  family. 

"  Hoo's  th'  owd  parson's  lass,"  somebody  said. 
"  Hoo's  noan  so  bad  lookin'  neyther,  if  hoo  was 
na  sich  a  bit  o'  a  thing." 

The  people  who  had  regarded  Mr.  Barholm 
with  a  spice  of  disfavor,  still  could  not  look  with 
ill-nature  upon  this  pretty  girl.  The  slatternly 
women  nudged  each  other  as  she  passed,  and  the 
playing  children  stared  after  their  usual  fashion; 


52         THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

but  even  the  hardest-natured  matron  could  find 
nothing  more  condemnatory  to  say  than,  "  Hoo's 
noan  Lancashire,  that's  plain  as  th'  nose  on  a 
body's  face;"  or,  "Theeris  na  much  on  her,  at 
ony  rate.  Hoo's  a  bit  of  a  weakly-like  lass  wi'out 
much  blood  i'  her." 

Now  and  then  Anice  caught  the  sound  of  their 
words,  but  she  was  used  to  being  commented 
upon.  She  had  learned  that  people  whose  lives 
have  a  great  deal  of  hard,  common  discomfort 
and  struggle,  acquire  a  tendency  to  depreciation 
almost  as  a  second  nature.  It  is  easier  to  bear 
one's  own  misfortunes,  than  to  bear  the  good- 
fortune  of  better-used  people.  That  is  the  insult 
added  by  Fate  to  injury. 

Riggan  was  a  crooked,  rambling,  cross-grained 
little  place.  From  the  one  wide  street  with  its 
jumble  of  old,  tumble-down  shops,  and  glaring 
new  ones,  branched  out  narrow,  up-hill  or  down 
hill  thoroughfares,  edged  by  colliers'  houses, 
with  an  occasional  tiny  provision  shop,  where 
bread  and  bacon  were  ranged  alongside  potatoes 
and  flabby  cabbages;  ornithological  specimens 
made  of  pale  sweet  cake,  and  adorned  with  star 
tling  black  currant  eyes,  rested  unsteadily  against 
the  window-pane,  a  sore  temptation  to  the  juve 
nile  populace. 

It  was  in  one  of  these  side  streets  that  Anice 
met  with  her  first  adventure. 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S         53 

Turning  the  corner,  she  heard  the  sharp  yelp 
of  a  dog  among  a  group  of  children,  followed 
almost  immediately  by  a  ringing  of  loud,  angry, 
boyish  voices,  a  sound  of  blows  and  cries,  and  a 
violent  scuffle.  Anice  paused  for  a  few  seconds, 
looking  over  the  heads  of  the  excited  little  crowd, 
and  then  made  her  way  to  it,  and  in  a  minute  was 
in  the  heart  of  it.  The  two  boys  who  were  the 
principal  figures,  were  fighting  frantically,  scuf 
fling,  kicking,  biting,  and  laying  on  vigorous 
blows,  with  not  unscientific  fists.  Now  and  then 
a  fierce,  red,  boyish  face  was  to  be  seen,  and  then 
the  rough  head  ducked  and  the  fight  waxed 
fiercer  and  hotter,  while  the  dog — a  small,  shrewd 
sharp-nosed  terrier — barked  at  the  combatants' 
heels,  snapping  at  one  pair,  but  not  at  the  other, 
and  plainly  enjoying  the  excitement. 

"  Boys  !  "  cried  Anice.  "  What's  the  mat 
ter?"  * 

"  They're  feighten,"  remarked  a  philosophical 
young  by-stander,  with  placid  interest, — "  an'  Jud 
Bates  '11  win." 

It  was  so  astonishing  a  thing  that  any  outsider 
should  think  of  interfering,  and  there  was  some 
thing  so  decided  in  the  girlish  voice  addressing 
them,  that  almost  at  the  moment  the  combatants 
fell  back,  panting  heavily,  breathing  vengeance  in 
true  boy  fashion,  and  evidently  resenting  the  un 
expected  intrusion. 


54         THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

"  What  is  it  all  about  ? "  demanded  the  girl. 
"  Tell  me." 

The  crowd  gathered  close  around  her  to  stare, 
the  terrier  sat  down  breathless,  his  red  tongue 
hanging  out,  his  tail  beating  the  ground.  One  of 
the  boys  was  his  master,  it  was  plain  at  a  glance, 
and,  as  a  natural  consequence,  the  dog  had  felt  it 
his  duty  to  assist  to  the  full  extent  of  his  powers. 
But  the  other  boy  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  Why  could  na  he  let  me  a-be  then  ?  "  he  asked 
irately.  "  I  was  na  doin'  owt  t'  him." 

"  Yea,  tha  was,"  retorted  his  opponent,  a  sturdy, 
ragged,  ten-year-old. 

"  Nay,  I  was  na." 

"  Yea,  tha  was." 

"  Well,"  said  Anice,  "  what  was  he  doing  ?  " 

"Aye,"  cried  the  first  youngster,  "tha  tell  her 
if  tha  con.  Who  hit  th'  first  punse  ?  "  excitedly 
doubling  his  fist  again.  "  I  didna." 

"  Nay,  tha  didna,  but  tha  did  summat  else.  Tha 
punsed  at  Nib  wi'  thy  clog,  an'  hit  him  aside  o' 
th'  yed,  an'  then  I  punsed  thee,  an'  I'd  do  it  agen 
fur—" 

"  Wait  a  minute,"  said  Anice,  holding  up  her 
little  gloved  hand.  "  Who  is  Nib  ?  " 

"  Nib's  my  dog," surlily.  "An'  them  as  punses 
him,  has  getten  to  punse  me." 

Anice  bent  down  and  patted  the  small 
animal. 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S         55 

"  He  seems  a  very  nice  dog,"  she  said.  "  What 
did  you  kick  him  for?" 

Nib's  master  was  somewhat  mollified.  A  per 
son  who  could  appreciate  the  virtues  of  "  th'  best 
tarrier  i'  Riggan,"  could  not  be  regarded  wholly 
with  contempt,  or  even  indifference. 

"  He  kicked  him  fur  nowt,"  he  answered. 
"  He's  allus  at  uther  him  or  me.  He  bust  my 
kite,  an'  he  cribbed  my  marvels,  didn't  he  ?  "  ap 
pealing  to  the  by-standers. 

"  Aye,  he  did.  I  seed  him  crib  th'  marvels  my- 
sen.  He  wur  mad  'cos  Jud  wur  winnen,  and  then 
he  kicked  Nib." 

Jud  bent  down  to  pat  Nib  himself,  not  without 
a  touch  of  pride  in  his  manifold  injuries,  and  the 
readiness  with  which  they  were  attested. 

"  Aye,"  he  said,  "  an'  I  did  na  set  on  him  at  first 
neyther.  I  nivver  set  on  him  till  he  punsed  Nib. 
He  may  bust  my  kite,  an'  steal  my  marvels,  an' 
he  may  ca'  me  ill  names,  but  he  shanna  kick  Nib. 
So  theer ! " 

It  was  evident  that  Nib's  enemy  was  the  trans 
gressor.  He  was  grievously  in  the  minority. 
Nobody  seemed  to  side  with  him,  and  everybody 
seemed  ready — when  once  the  tongues  were 
loosed — to  say  a  word  for  Jud  and  "  th'  best  tar 
rier  i'  Riggan."  For  a  few  minutes  Anice  could 
scarcely  make  herself  heard. 

"  You   are   a  good  boy  to  take  care  of  your 


56         THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

dog,"  she  said  to  Jud — "  and  though  fighting  is 
not  a  good  thing,  perhaps  if  I  had  been  a  boy," 
gravely  deciding  against  moral  suasion  in  one 
rapid  glance  at  the  enemy — "  perhaps  if  I  had 
been  a  boy,  I  would  have  fought  myself.  You 
are  a  coward,"  she  added,  with  incisive  scorn  to 
the  other  lad,  who  slinked  sulkily  out  of  sight. 

"  Owd  Sammy  Craddock,"  lounging  at  his  win 
dow,  clay  pipe  in  hand,  watched  Anice  as  she 
walked  away,  and  gave  vent  to  his  feelings  in  a 
shrewd  chuckle. 

"  Eh  !  eh  !  "  he  commented ;  "  so  that's  th'  owd 
parson's  lass,  is  it?  Wall,  hoo  may  be  o'  th'  same 
mate,  but  hoo  is  na  o'  th'  same  grain,  I'll  warrant. 
Hoo's  a  rare  un,  hoo  is,  fur  a  wench." 

"  Owd  Sammy's  "  amused  chuckles,  and  ex 
clamations  of  "  Eh !  hoo's  a  rare  un — that  hoo  is 
— fur  a  wench,"  at  last  drew  his  wife's  attention. 
The  good  woman  pounced  upon  him  sharply. 

"Tha'rt  an  owd  yommer-head,"  she  said. 
"  What  art  tha  ramblin'  about  now  ?  Who  is  it 
as  is  siccan  a  rare  un  ?  " 

Owd  Sammy  burst  into  a  fresh  chuckle,  rub 
bing  his  knees  with  both  hands. 

"  Why,"  said  he,  "  I'll  warrant  tha  could  na 
guess  i'  tha  tried,  but  I'll  gi'e  thee  a  try.  Who 
dost  tha  think  wur  out  i'  th'  street  just  now  i'  th' 
thick  of  a  foight  among  th'  lads  ?  I  know  thou'st 
nivver  guess." 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S         57 

"  Nay,  happen  I  canna,  an'  I  dunnot  know  as  I 
care  so  much,  neyther,"  testily. 

"  Why,"  slapping  his  knee,  "  th'  owd  parson's 
lass.  A  little  wench  not  much  higher  nor  thy 
waist,  an'  wi'  a  bit  o'  a  face  loike  skim-milk,  but 
steady  and  full  o'  pluck  as  an  owd  un." 

"  Nay  now,  tha  dost  na  say  so  ?  What  wor  she 
doin'  an'  how  did  she  come  theer  ?  Tha  mun  ha' 
been  dreamin' ! " 

"Nowt  o'  th'  soart.  I  seed  her  as  plain  as  I 
see  thee  an'  heerd  ivvery  word  she  said.  Tha 
shouldst  ha'  seen  her  !  Hoo  med  as  if  hoo'd  lived 
wi'  lads  aw  her  days.  Jud  Bates  and  that  young 
marplot  o'  Thorme's  wur  feightin  about  Nib — at 
it  tooth  and  nail — an'  th'  lass  sees  'em,  an'  marches 
into  th'  thick,  an'  sets  'em  to  reets.  Yo'  should 
ha'  seen  her !  An'  hoo  tells  Jud  as  he's  a  good 
lad  to  tak'  care  o'  his  dog,  an'  hoo  does  na  know 
but  what  hoo'd  fowt  hersen  i'  his  place,  an'  hoo 
ca's  Jack  Thorme  a  coward,  an'  turns  her  back  on 
him,  an'  ends  up  wi'  tellin'  Jud  to  bring  th'  tarrier 
to  th'  Rectory  to  see  her." 

"Well,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Craddock,  "did  yo' 
ivver  hear  th'  loike ! " 

"  I  wish  th'  owd  parson  had  seed  her,"  chuckled 
her  spouse  irreverently.  "  That  soart  is  na  i'  his 
loine.  He'd  a  waved  his  stick  as  if  he'd  been 
king  and  council  i'  one,  an'  rated  'em  fro'  th'  top 
round  o'  th'  ladder.  He  canna  get  down  fro'  his 


58         THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

perch.  Th'  owd  lad'll  stick  theer  till  he  gets  a  bit 
too  heavy,  an'  then  he'll  coom  down  wi'  a  crash, 
ladder  an'  aw' — but  th'  lass  is  a  different  mak'." 

Sammy  being  an  oracle  among  his  associates, 
new-comers  usually  passed  through  his  hands,  and 
were  condemned,  or  approved,  by  him.  His 
pipe,  and  his  criticisms  upon  society  in  general, 
provided  him  with  occupation.  Too  old  to  fight 
and  work,  he  was  too  shrewd  to  be  ignored. 
Where  he  could  not  make  himself  felt,  he  could 
make  himself  heard.  Accordingly,  when  he 
condescended  to  inform  a  select  and  confiden 
tial  audience  that  the  "  owd  parson's  lass  was  a 
rare  un,  lass  as  she  was" — (the  masculine  opinion 
of  Riggan  on  the  subject  of  the  weaker  sex  was  a 
rather  disparaging  one) — the  chances  of  the 
Rector's  daughter  began,  so  to  speak,  to  "  look 
up."  If  Sammy  Craddock  found  virtue  in  the 
new-comer,  it  was  possible  such  virtue  might 
exist,  at  least  in  a  negative  form, — and  open 
enmity  was  rendered  unnecessary,  and  even  im 
politic.  A  faint  interest  began  to  be  awakened. 
When  Anice  passed  through  the  streets,  the 
slatternly,  baby-laden  women  looked  at  her  curi 
ously,  and  in  a  manner  not  absolutely  unfriend 
ly.  She  might  not  be  so  bad  after  all,  if  she 
did  have  •'  Lunnon  ways,"  and  was  smiled  upon 
by  Fortune.  At  any  rate,  she  differed  from 
the  parson  himself,  which  was  in  her  favor. 


CHAPTER  K 

Outside  the  Hedge 

DEEPLY  as  Anice  was  interested  in  Joan,  she 
left  her  to  herself.  She  did  not  go  to  see  her, 
and  still  more  wisely,  she  managed  to  hush  in  her 
father  any  awakening  tendency  toward  parochial 
visits.  But  from  Grace  and  Fergus  Derrick  she 
heard  much  of  her,  and  through  Grace  she  con 
trived  to  convey  work  and  help  to  Liz,  and  en 
couragement  to  her  protectress.  From  what 
source  the  assistance  came,  Joan  did  not  know, 
and  she  was  not  prone  to  ask  questions. 

"  If  she  asks,  tell  her  it  is  from  a  girl  like  her 
self,"  Anice  had  said,  and  Joan  had  accepted  the 
explanation. 

In  a  very  short  time  from  the  date  of  their  first 
acquaintance,  Fergus  Derrick's  position  in  the 
Barholm  household  had  become  established.  He 
was  the  man  to  make  friends  and  keep  them. 
Mrs.  Barholm  grew  fond  of  him ;  the  Rector  re 
garded  him  as  an  acquisition  to  their  circle,  and 
Anice  was  his  firm  friend.  So,  being  free  to  come 
and  go,  he  came  and  went,  and  found  his  uncere 
monious  visits  pleasant  enough.  On  his  arrival 


60         THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

at  Riggan,  he  had  not  anticipated  meeting  with 
any  such  opportunities  of  enjoyment.  He  had 
come  to  do  hard  work,  and  had  expected  a  hard 
life,  softened  by  few  social  graces.  The  work  of 
opening  the  new  mines  was  a  heavy  one,  and  was 
rendered  additionally  heavy  and  dangerous  by 
unforeseen  circumstances.  A  load  of  responsi 
bility  rested  upon  his  shoulders,  to  which  at  times 
he  felt  himself  barely  equal,  and  which  men  of 
less  tough  fibre  would  have  been  glad  to  shift 
upon  others.  Naturally,  his  daily  cares  made  his 
hours  of  relaxation  all  the  more  pleasant.  Mrs. 
Barholm's  influence  upon  him  was  a  gentle  and 
soothing  one,  and  in  Anice  he  found  a  subtle  in 
spiration.  She  seemed  to  understand  his  trials 
by  instinct,  and  even  the  minutias  of  his  work 
made  themselves  curiously  clear  to  her.  As  to 
the  people  who  were  under  his  control,  she  was 
never  tired  of  hearing  of  them,  and  of  studying 
their  quaint,  rough  ways.  To  please  her  he  stored 
up  many  a  characteristic  incident,  and  it  was 
through  him  that  she  heard  most  frequently  of 
Joan.  She  did  not  even  see  Joan  for  fully  two 
months  after  her  arrival  in  Riggan,  and  then  it 
was  Joan  who  came  to  her. 

As  the  weather  became  more  spring-like  she 
was  oftener  out  in  the  garden.  She  found  a  great 
deal  to  do  among  the  flower-beds  and  shrubbery, 
and  as  this  had  always  been  considered  her  de- 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S         61 

partment,  she  took  the  management  of  affairs 
wholly  into  her  own  hands.  The  old  place,  which 
had  been  rather  neglected  in  the  time  of  the  pre 
vious  inhabitant,  began  to  bloom  out  into  fragrant 
luxuriance,  and  passing  Rigganites  regarded  it 
with  admiring  eyes.  The  colliers  who  had  no 
ticed  her  at  the  window  in  the  colder  weather, 
seeing  her  so  frequently  from  a  nearer  point  of 
view,  felt  themselves  on  more  familiar  terms. 
Some  of  them  even  took  a  sort  of  liking  to  her, 
and  gave  her  an  uncouth  greeting  as  they  went 
by ;  and,  more  than  once,  one  or  another  of  them 
had  paused  to  ask  for  a  flower  or  two,  and  had 
received  them  with  a  curious  bashful  awe,  when 
they  had  been  passed  over  the  holly  hedge. 

Having  gone  out  one  evening  after  dinner  to 
gather  flowers  for  the  house,  Anice,  standing  be 
fore  a  high  lilac  bush,  and  pulling  its  pale  purple 
tassels,  became  suddenly  conscious  that  some  one 
was  watching  her — some  one  standing  upon  the 
roadside  behind  the  holly  hedge.  She  did  not 
know  that  as  she  stopped  here  and  there  to  fill 
her  basket,  she  had  been  singing  to  herself  in  a 
low  tone.  Her  voice  had  attracted  the  passer- 
by. 

This  passer-by — a  tall  pit  girl  with  a  handsome, 
resolute  face — stood  behind  the  dark  green  hedge, 
and  watched  her.  Perhaps  to  this  girl,  weary 
with  her  day's  labor,  grimed  with  coal-dust,  it  was 


62         THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

not  unlike  standing  outside  paradise.  Early  in 
the  year  as  it  was,  there  were  flowers  enough  in 
the  beds,  and  among  the  shrubs,  to  make  the 
spring  air  fresh  with  a  faint,  sweet  odor.  But 
here  too  was  Anice  in  her  soft  white  merino 
dress,  with  her  basket  of  flowers,  with  the  blue 
bells  at  her  belt,  and  her  half  audible  song.  She 
struck  Joan  Lowrie  with  a  new  sense  of  beauty 
and  purity.  As  she  watched  her  she  grew  dis 
contented — restless — sore  at  heart.  She  could 
not  have  told  why,  but  she  felt  a  certain  anger 
against  herself.  She  had  had  a  hard  day.  Things 
had  gone  wrong  at  the  pit's  mouth ;  things  had 
gone  wrong  at  home.  It  was  hard  for  her  strong 
nature  to  bear  with  Liz's  weakness.  Her  path 
was  never  smooth,  but  to-day  it  had  been  at  its 
roughest.  The  little  song  fell  upon  her  ear  with 
strong  pathos. 

"  She's  inside  o'  th'  hedge,"  she  said  to  herself 
in  a  dull  voice.  "  I'm  outside,  theer's  th'  differ 
ence.  It  a'most  looks  loike  the  hedge  went  aw' 
around  an'  she'd  been  born  among  th'  flowers,  and 
theer's  no  way  out  for  her — no  more  than  theer's 
a  way  in  fur  me." 

Then  it  was  that  Anice  turned  round  and  saw 
her.  Their  eyes  met,  and,  singularly  enough, 
Anice's  first  thought  was  that  this  was  Joan. 
Derrick's  description  made  her  sure.  There  were 
not  two  such  women  in  Riggan.  She  made  her 


it  was  that  Anice  turned  round  and  saw  her. 


THAT   LASS  O'   LOWRIE'S         63 

decision  in  a  moment.  She  stepped  across  the 
grass  to  the  hedge  with  a  ready  smile. 

"  You  were  looking  at  my  flowers,"  she  said. 
"  Will  you  have  some?" 

Joan  hesitated. 

"  I  often  give  them  to  people,"  said  Anice,  tak 
ing  a  handful  from  the  basket  and  offering  them 
to  her  across  the  holly.  "  When  the  men  come 
home  from  the  mines  they  often  ask  me  for  two  or 
three,  and  I  think  they  like  them  even  better  than 
I  do — though  that  is  saying  a  great  deal." 

Joan  held  out  her  hand,  and  took  the  flowers, 
holding  them  awkwardly,  but  with  tenderness. 

"  Oh,  thank  yo',"  she  said.  "  It's  kind  o'  yo'  to 
gi'  'em  away." 

"  It's  a  pleasure  to  me,"  said  Anice,  picking  out 
a  delicate  pink  hyacinth.  "  Here's  a  hyacinth." 
Then  as  Joan  took  it  their  eyes  met.  "Are  you 
Joan  Lowrie?"  asked  the  girl. 

Joan  lifted  her  head. 

"  Aye,"  she  answered,  "  I'm  Joan  Lowrie." 

"Ah,"  said  Anice,  "then  I  am  very  glad." 

They  stood  on  the  same  level  from  that  mo 
ment.  Something  as  indescribable  as  all  else  in 
her  manner,  had  done  for  Anice  just  what  she  had 
simply  and  seriously  desired  to  do.  Proud  and 
stubborn  as  her  nature  was,  Joan  was  subdued. 
The  girl's  air  and  speech  were  like  her  song.  She 
stood  inside  the  hedge  still,  in  her  white  dress, 


64         THAT  LASS  O'   LOWRIE'S 

among  the  flowers,  looking  just  as  much  as  if  she 
had  been  born  there  as  ever,  but  some  fine  part  of 
her  had  crossed  the  boundary. 

"  Ah !  then  I  am  glad  of  that,"  she  said. 

"Yo'  are  very  good  to  say  as  much,"  she 
answered,  "  but  I  dunnot  know  as  I  quite  under- 
stand—" 

Anice  drew  a  little  nearer. 

"  Mr.  Grace  has  told  me  about  you,"  she  said. 
"  And  Mr.  Derrick." 

Joan's  brown  throat  raised  itself  a  trifle,  and 
Anice  thought  color  showed  itself  on  her  cheek. 

"  Both  on  'em's  been  good  to  me,"  she  said, 
"  but  I  did  na  think  as—" 

Anice  stopped  her  with  a  little  gesture. 

"  It  was  you  who  were  so  kind  to  Liz  when  she 
had  no  friend,"  she  began. 

Joan  interrupted  her  with  sudden  eagerness. 

"  It  wur  yo'  as  sent  th'  work  an'  th'  things  fur 
th'  choild,"  she  said. 

"Yes,  it  was  I,"  answered  Anice.  "But  I 
hardly  knew  what  to  send.  I  hope  I  sent  the 
right  things,  did  I?" 

"  Yes,  miss ;  thank  yo'."  And  then  in  a  lower 
voice,  "  They  wur  a  power  o'  help  to  Liz  an'  me. 
Liz  wur  hard  beset  then,  an'  she's  only  a  young 
thing  as  canna  bear  sore  trouble.  Seemed  loike 
that  th'  thowt  as  some  un  had  helped  her  wur 
a  comfort  to  her." 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S         65 

Anice  took  courage. 

"  Perhaps  if  I  might  come  and  see  her,"  she 
said.  "May  I  come?  I  should  like  to  see  the 
baby.  I  am  very  fond  of  little  children." 

There  was  a  moment's  pause,  and  then  Joan 
spoke  awkwardly. 

"  Do  yo'  know — happen  yo'  dunnot — what  Liz's 
trouble  is?  Bein'  as  yo're  so  young  yorsen, 
happen  they  did  na  tell  yo'  all.  Most  o'  toimes 
folk  is  na  apt  to  be  fond  o'  such  loike  as  this  little 
un  o'  hers." 

"  1  heard  all  the  story." 

"  Then  come  if  yo'  loike, — an'  if  they'll  let  yo', 
some  ud  think  there  wur  harm  i'  th'  choild's 
touch.  I'm  glad  yo'  dunna." 

She  did  not  linger  much  longer.  Anice 
watched  her  till  she  was  out  of  sight.  An  impos 
ing  figure  she  was — moving  down  the  road  in 
her  rough  masculine  garb — the  massive  perfec 
tion  of  her  form  clearly  outlined  against  the  light. 
It  seemed  impossible  that  such  a  flower  as  this 
could  blossom,  and  decay,  and  die  out  in  such  a 
life,  without  any  higher  fruition. 

"  I  have  seen  Joan  Lowrie,"  said  Anice  to  Der 
rick,  when  next  they  met. 

"  Did  she  come  to  you,  or  did  you  go  to  her?  " 
Fergus  asked. 

"  She  came  to  me,  but  without  knowing  that 
she  was  coming." 
5 


66         THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

"  That  was  best,"  was  his  comment. 

Joan  Lowrie  was  as  much  a  puzzle  to  him  as 
she  was  to  other  people.  Despite  the  fact  that  he 
saw  her  every  day  of  his  life,  he  had  never  found 
it  possible  to  advance  a  step  with  her.  She  held 
herself  aloof  from  him,  just  as  she  held  herself 
aloof  from  the  rest.  A  common  greeting,  and 
oftener  than  not,  a  silent  one,  was  all  that  passed 
between  them.  Try  as  he  would,  he  could  get 
no  farther ; — and  he  certainly  did  make  some  ef 
fort.  Now  and  then  he  found  the  chance  to  do 
her  a  good  turn,  and  such  opportunities  he  never 
let  slip,  though  his  way  of  doing  such  things  was 
always  so  quiet  as  to  be  unlikely  to  attract  any  ob 
servation.  Usually  he  made  his  way  with  people 
easily,  but  this  girl  held  him  at  a  distance,  almost 
ungraciously.  And  he  did  not  like  to  be  beaten. 
Who  does?  So  he  persevered  with  a  shade  of 
stubbornness,  hidden  under  a  net-work  of  other 
motives.  Once,  when  he  had  exerted  himself  to 
lighten  her  labor  somewhat,  she  set  aside  his 
assistance  openly. 

"Theer's  others  as  needs  help  more  nor  me," 
she  said.  "  Help  them,  an'  I'll  thank  yo'." 

In  course  of  time,  however,  he  accidentally  dis 
covered  that  there  had  been  occasions  when,  not- 
withstanding  her  apparent  ungraciousness,  she 
had  exerted  her  influence  in  his  behalf. 

The    older    colliers    resented    his    youth,   the 


THAT  LASS  O'  LOWRIE'S         67 

younger  ones  his  authority.  The  fact  that  he 
was  "  noan  Lancashire"  worked  against  him  too, 
though  even  if  he  had  been  a  Lancashire  man, 
he  would  not  have  been  likely  to  find  over-much 
favor.  It  was  enough  that  he  was  "  one  o'  th' 
mesters."  To  have  been  weak  of  will,  or  vacil 
lating  of  purpose,  would  have  been  death  to 
every  vestige  of  the  authority  vested  in  him  ; 
but  he  was  as  strong  mentally  as  physically — 
strong-willed  to  the  verge  of  stubbornness.  But 
if  they  could  not  frighten  or  subdue  him,  they 
could  still  oppose  and  irritate  him,  and  the  conten« 
tion  was  obstinate.  This  feeling  even  influenced 
the  girls  and  women  at  the  "  mouth."  They,  too, 
organized  in  petty  rebellion,  annoying  if  not 
powerful. 

"  I  think  yo'  will  find  as  yo'  may  as  well  leave 
th'  engineer  be,"  Joan  would  say  dryly.  "  Yo' 
will  na  fear  him  much,  an*  yo'll  tire  yo'rsens  wi' 
yo're  clatter.  I  donna  see  the  good  o'  barkin'  so 
much  when  yo'  canna  bite." 

"  Aye,"  jeered  one  of  the  boldest,  once,  "  leave 
th'  engineer  be.  Joan  sets  a  power  o'  store  by  th' 
engineer." 

There  was  a  shout  of  laughter,  but  it  died  out 
when  Joan  confronted  the  speaker  with  danger 
ous  steadiness  of  gaze. 

"  Save  thy  breath  to  cool  thy  porridge,"  she 
said.  "  It  will  be  better  for  thee." 


68         THAT   LASS  O'   LOWRIE'S 

But  it  was  neither  the  first  nor  the  last  time 
that  her  Companions  flung  out  a  jeer  at  her 
"sweetheartin'."  The  shrewdest  among  them 
had  observed  Derrick's  interest  in  her.  They 
concluded,  of  course,  that  Joan's  handsome  face 
had  won  her  a  sweetheart.  They  could  not  ac 
cuse  her  of  encouraging  him  ;  but  they  could  pro 
fess  to  believe  that  she  was  softening,  and  they 
could  use  the  insinuation  as  a  sharp  weapon 
against  her,  when  such  a  course  was  not  too  haz 
ardous. 

Of  this,  Derrick  knew  nothing.  He  could  only 
see  that  Joan  set  her  face  persistently  against  his 
attempts  to  make  friends  with  her,  and  the  recog 
nition  of  this  fact  almost  exasperated  him  at 
times.  It  was  quite  natural  that,  seeing  so  much 
of  this  handsome  creature,  and  hearing  so  much 
of  her,  his  admiration  should  not  die  out,  and 
that  opposition  should  rather  invite  him  to 
stronger  efforts  to  reach  her. 

So  it  was  that  hearing  Miss  Barholm's  story  he 
fell  into  unconscious  reverie.  Of  course  this  did 
not  last  long.  He  was  roused  from  it  by  the  fact 
that  Anice  was  looking  at  him.  When  he  looked 
up,  it  seemed  as  if  she  awakened  also,  though  she 
did  not  start. 

"How  are  you  getting  on  at  the  mines?"  she 
asked. 

"  Badly.     Or,  at  least,  by  no  means  well.     The 


THAT   LASS  O'   LOWRIE'S         69 

men  are  growing  harder  to  deal  with  every 
day." 

"And  your  plans  about  the  fans?" 

The  substitution  of  the  mechanical  fan  for  the 
old  furnace  at  the  base  of  the  shaft,  was  one  of 
the  projects  to  which  Derrick  clung  most  tena 
ciously.  During  a  two  years'  sojourn  among  the 
Belgian  mines,  he  had  studied  the  system  ear 
nestly.  He  had  worked  hard  to  introduce  it  at 
Riggan,  and  meant  to  work  still  harder.  But  the 
miners  were  bitterly  opposed  to  anything  "  new 
fangled,"  and  the  owners  were  careless.  So  that 
the  mines  were  worked,  and  their  profits  made,  it 
did  not  matter  for  the  rest.  They  were  used  to 
casualties,  so  well  used  to  them  in  fact,  that  un 
less  a  fearful  loss  of  life  occurred,  they  were  not 
alarmed  or  even  roused.  As  to  the  injuries 
done  to  a  man's  health,  and  so  on — they  had  not 
time  to  inquire  into  such  things.  There  was  dan 
ger  in  all  trades,  for  the  matter  of  that.  Fergus 
Derrick  was  a  young  man,  and  young  men  were 
fond  of  novelties. 

Opposition  was  bad  enough,  but  indifference  was 
far  more  baffling.  The  colliers  opposed  Derrick 
to  the  utmost,  the  Company  was  rather  inclined 
to  ignore  him — some  members  good-naturedly, 
others  with  an  air  of  superiority,  not  unmixed 
with  contempt.  The  colliers  talked  with  rough 
ill-nature ;  the  Company  did  not  want  to  talk  at  all 


70         THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

"  Oh,"  answered  Derrick,  "  I  do  not  see  that  I 
have  made  one  step  forward ;  but  it  will  go  hard 
with  me  before  I  am  beaten.  Some  of  the  men  I 
have  to  deal  with  are  as  bat-blind  as  they  are 
cantankerous.  One  would  think  that  experience 
might  have  taught  them  wisdom.  Would  you 
believe  that  some  of  those  working  in  the  most 
dangerous  parts  of  the  mine  have  false  keys  to 
their  Davys,  and  use  the  flame  to  light  their 
pipes?  I  have  heard  of  the  thing  being  done  be 
fore,  but  I  only  discovered  the  other  day  that  we 
had  such  madmen  in  the  pits  here.  If  I  could 
only  be  sure  of  them  I  would  settle  the  matter  at 
once,  but  they  are  crafty  enough  to  keep  their 
secret,  and  it  only  drifts  to  the  master  as  a 
rumor." 

"Have  you  no  suspicion  as  to  who  they  are?" 
asked  Anice. 

"  I  suspect  one  man,"  he  answered,  "  but  only 
suspect  him  because  he  is  a  bad  fellow,  reckless  in 
all  things,  and  always  ready  to  break  the  rules. 
I  suspect  Dan  Lowrie." 

"  Joan's  father  ?  "  exclaimed  Anice  in  distress. 

Derrick  made  a  gesture  of  assent. 

"  He  is  the  worst  man  in  the  mines,"  he  said. 
"  The  man  with  the  worst  influence,  the  man  who 
can  work  best  if  he  will,  the  man  whose  feeling 
against  any  authority  is  the  strongest,  and  whose 
feeling  against  me  amounts  to  bitter  enmity." 


THAT   LASS  O'   LOWRIE'S         71 

"  Against  you  ?     But  why  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  because  I  have  no  liking  for  him 
myself,  and  because  I  will  have  orders  obeyed, 
whether  they  are  my  orders  or  the  orders  of  the 
owners.  I  will  have  work  done  as  it  should 
be  done,  and  I  will  not  be  frightened  by  bullies." 

"  But  if  he  is  a  dangerous  man — ." 

"  He  would  knock  me  down  from  behind,  or 
spoil  my  beauty  with  vitriol  as  coolly  as  he  would 
toss  off  a  pint  of  beer,  if  he  had  the  opportunity, 
and  chanced  to  feel  vicious  enough  at  the  time," 
said  Derrick.  "  But  his  mood  has  not  quite 
come  to  that  yet.  Just  now  he  feels  that  he 
would  like  to  have  a  row, — and  really,  if  we 
could  have  a  row,  it  would  be  the  best  thing  for 
us  both.  If  one  of  us  could  thrash  the  other 
at  the  outset,  it  might  never  come  to  the  vitriol." 

He  was  cool  enough  himself,  and  spoke  in 
quite  a  matter-of-fact  way,  but  Anice  suddenly 
lost  her  color.  When,  later,  she  bade  him  good 
night — 

"  I  am  afraid  of  that  man,"  she  said,  as  he  held 
her  hand  for  the  moment.  "  Don't  let  him  harm 
you." 

"  What  man  ?  "  asked  Derrick.  "  Is  it  possible 
you  are  thinking  about  what  I  said  of  Lowrie  ?  " 

"  Yes.  It  is  so  horrible.  I  cannot  bear  the 
thought  of  it.  I  am  not  used  to  hear  of  such 
things.  I  am  afraid  for  you." 


72         THAT  LASS  O'   LOWRIE'S 

"  You  are  very  good,"  he  said,  his  strong  hand 
returning  her  grasp  with  warm  gratitude.  "  But 
I  am  sorry  I  said  so  much,  if  I  have  frightened 
you.  I  ought  to  have  remembered  how  new 
such  things  were  to  you.  It  is  nothing,  I  assure 
you."  And  bidding  her  good -night  again,  he 
went  away  quite  warmed  at  heart  by  her  inno 
cent  interest  in  him,  but  blaming  himself  not 
a  little  for  his  indiscretion. 


CHAPTER  in 

Joan  and  the  Child 

To  the  young  curate's  great  wonder,  on  his 
first  visit  to  her  after  the  advent  of  Liz  and  her 
child,  Joan  changed  her  manner  towards  him. 
She  did  not  attempt  to  repel  him,  she  even  bade 
him  welcome  in  a  way  of  her  own.  Deep  in 
Joan's  heart  was  hidden  a  fancy  that  perhaps  the 
work  of  this  young  fellow  who  was  "  good  enow 
fur  a  parson,"  lay  with  such  as  Liz,  and  those 
who  like  Liz  bore  a  heavy  burden. 

"If  yo'  can  do  her  any  good,"  she  said,  "come 
and  welcome.  Come  every  day.  I  dunnot  know 
much  about  such  like  mysen,  but  happen  yo'  ha' 
a  way  o'  helpin'  folk  as  canna  help  theirsens  i' 
trouble — an'  Liz  is  one  on  'em." 

Truly  Liz  was  one  of  these.  She  clung  to  Joan 
in  a  hopeless,  childish  way,  as  her  only  comfort. 
She  could  do  nothing  for  herself,  she  could  only 
obey  Joan's  dictates,  and  this  she  did  in  listless 
misery.  When  she  had  work  to  do,  she  made 
weak  efforts  at  doing  it,  and  when  she  had  none 
she  sat  and  held  the  child  upon  her  knee,  her  eyes 
following  her  friend  with  a  vague  appeal.  The 


74         THAT   LASS  O'  LOWRIE'S 

discomfort  of  her  lot,  the  wretchedness  of  coming 
back  to  shame  and  tears,  after  a  brief  season  of 
pleasure  and  luxury,  was  what  crushed  her.  So 
long  as  her  lover  had  cared  for  her,  and  she  had 
felt  no  fear  of  hunger  or  cold,  or  desertion,  she 
had  been  happy — happy  because  she  could  be 
idle  and  take  no  thought  for  the  morrow,  and 
was  almost  a  lady.  But  now  all  that  was  over. 
She  had  come  to  the  bitter  dregs  of  the  cup. 
She  was  thrown  on  her  own  resources,  nobody 
cared  for  her,  nobody  helped  her  but  Joan,  no 
body  called  her  pretty  and  praised  her  ways. 
She  was  not  to  be  a  lady  after  all,  she  must  work 
for  her  living  and  it  must  be  a  poor  one  too. 
There  would  be  no  fine  clothes,  no  nice  rooms, 
no  flattery  and  sugar-plums.  Everything  would 
be  even  far  harder,  and  more  unpleasant  than  it 
had  been  before.  And  then,  the  baby?  What 
could  she  do  with  it? — a  creature  more  helpless 
than  herself,  always  to  be  clothed  and  taken  care 
of,  when  she  could  not  take  care  of  herself,  always 
in  the  way,  always  crying  and  wailing  and  troub 
ling  day  and  night.  She  almost  blamed  the  baby 
for  everything.  Perhaps  she  would  not  have  lost 
her  lover  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  baby.  Per 
haps  he  knew  what  a  trouble  it  would  be,  and 
wanted  to  be  rid  of  her  before  it  came,  and  that 
was  why  he  had  gone  away.  The  night  Joan 
had  brought  her  home  she  had  taken  care  of  the 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWKIE'S         75 

child,  and  told  Liz  to  sit  down  and  rest,  and  had 
sat  down  herself  with  the  small  creature  in  her 
arms,  and  after  watching  her  for  a  while,  Liz  had 
broken  out  into  sobs,  and  slipped  down  upon  the 
floor  at  her  feet,  hiding  her  wretched,  pretty  face 
upon  her  friend's  knee. 

"  I  canna  abide  the  sight  o'  it,"  she  cried.  "  I 
canna  see  what  it  wur  born  fur,  mysen.  I  wish 
I'd  deed  when  I  wur  i'  Lunnon — when  he  cared  fur 
me.  He  wor  fond  enow  o'  me  at  th'  first.  Hr; 
could  na  abide  me  to  be  out  o'  his  sight.  I  niv 
ver  wur  so  happy  i'  my  life  as  I  wur  then.  Aye !  1 
did  na  think  then,  as  th'  toime  ud  come  when  he'd 
cast  me  out  i'  th'  road.  He  had  no  reet  to  do  it," 
her  voice  rising  hysterically.  "  He  had  no  reet  to 
do  it,  if  he  wur  a  gentleman ;  but  it  seems  gentle 
folk  can  do  owt  they  please.  If  he  did  na  mean 
to  stick  to  me,  why  could  na  he  ha'  let  me  a-be." 

"That  is  na  gentlefolks'  way,"  said  Joan  bit- 
terly,  "  but  if  I  wur  i'  yo're  place,  Liz,  I  would  na 
hate  th'  choild.  It  has  na  done  yo'  as  much  harm 
as  yo'  ha'  done  it." 

After  a  while,  when  the  girl  was  quieter,  Joan 
asked  her  a  question. 

"You  nivver  told  me  who  yo'  went  away  wi', 
Liz,"  she  said.  "I  ha'  a  reason  fur  wantin'  to 
know,  or  I  would  na  ax,  but  fur  a'  that  if  yo'  dun- 
not  want  to  tell  me,  yo'  need  na  do  it  against 
yo're  will." 


76         THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

Liz  was  silent  a  moment. 

"I  would  na  tell  ivverybody,"  she  said.  "I 
would  na  tell  nobody  but  yo'.  It  would  na  do 
no  good,  an'  I  dunnot  care  to  do  harm.  You'll 
keep  it  to  yo'rsen,  if  I  tell  yo',  Joan?" 

"  Aye,"  Joan  answered,  "  as  long  as  it  needs  be 
kept  to  mysen.  I  am  na  one  to  clatter." 

"Well,"  said  Liz  with  a  sob,  "it  wur  Mester 
Landsell  I  went  wi' — young  Mester  Landsell — 
Mester  Ralph." 

"  I  thout  as  much,"  said  Joan,  her  face  darkening. 

She  had  had  her  suspicions  from  the  first,  when 
Mr.  Ralph  Landsell  had  come  to  Riggan  with  his 
father,  who  was  one  of  the  mining  company.  He 
was  a  graceful,  fair-faced  young  fellow,  with  an 
open  hand  and  the  air  of  a  potentate,  and  his 
grandeur  had  pleased  Liz.  She  was  not  used  to 
flattery  and  "  fine  London  ways,"  and  her  vanity 
made  her  an  easy  victim. 

"  He  wur  allus  after  me,"  she  said,  with  fresh 
tears.  "He  nivver  let  me  be  till  I  promised  to 
go.  He  said  he  would  make  a  lady  o'  me  an'  he 
wur  allus  givin'  me  things.  He  wur  fond  o'  me 
at  first, — that  he  wur, — an*  I  wur  fond  o'  him.  I 
nivver  seed  no  one  loike  him  afore.  Oh!  it's 
hard,  it  is. — Oh!  it's  bitter  hard  an'  cruel,  as  it 
should  come  to  this." 

And  she  wailed  and  sobbed  until  she  wore  her 
self  out,  and  wearied  Joan  to  the  very  soul. 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S         77 

But  Joan  bore  with  her  and  never  showed  im 
patience  by  word  or  deed.  Childish  petulances 
and  plaints  fell  upon  her  like  water  upon  a 
rock — but  now  and  then  the  strong  nature  was 
rasped  beyond  endurance  by  the  weak  one.  She 
had  taken  no  small  task  upon  herself  when  she 
gave  Liz  her  word  that  she  would  shield  her. 
Only  after  a  while,  in  a  few  weeks,  a  new  influ 
ence  began  to  work  upon  Liz's  protectress.  The 
child  for  whom  there  seemed  no  place  in  the 
world,  or  in  any  pitying  heart — the  child  for 
whom  Liz  felt  nothing  but  vague  dislike  and  re 
sentment — the  child  laid  its  light  but  powerful 
hand  upon  Joan.  Once  or  twice  she  noticed  as 
she  moved  about  the  room  that  the  little  creat 
ure's  eyes  would  follow  her  in  a  way  something 
like  its  mother's,  as  if  with  appeal  to  her  superior 
strength.  She  fell  gradually  into  the  habit  of 
giving  it  more  attention.  It  was  so  little  and 
light,  so  easily  taken  from  Liz's  careless  hold 
when  it  was  restless,  so  easily  carried  to  and  fro, 
as  she  went  about  her  household  tasks.  She  had 
never  known  much  about  babies  until  chance  had 
thrown  this  one  in  her  path;  it  was  a  great  nov 
elty.  It  liked  her  strong  arms,  and  Liz  was  al 
ways  ready  to  give  it  up  to  her,  feeling  only  a 
weak  bewilderment  at  her  fancy  for  it.  When 
she  was  at  home  it  was  rarely  out  of  her  arms. 
It  was  no  source  of  weariness  to  her  perfect 


78         THAT  LASS  O'   LOWRIE'S 

strength.  She  carried  it  here  and  there,  she  era- 
died  it  upon  her  knees,  when  she  sat  down  by  the 
fire  to  rest ;  she  learned  in  time  a  hundred  gentle 
woman's  ways  through  its  presence.  Her  step  be 
came  lighter,  her  voice  softer — a  heavy  tread,  or 
a  harsh  tone  might  waken  the  child.  For  the 
child's  sake  she  doffed  her  uncouth  working-dress 
when  she  entered  the  house ;  for  the  child's  sake 
she  made  an  effort  to  brighten  the  dulness,  and 
soften  the  roughness  of  their  surroundings. 

The  Reverend  Paul,  in  his  visits  to  the  house, 
observed  with  tremor,  the  subtle  changes  wrought 
in  her.  Catching  at  the  straw  of  her  negative 
welcome,  he  went  to  see  Liz  whenever  he  could 
find  a  tangible  excuse.  He  had  a  sensitive  dread 
of  intruding  even  upon  the  poor  privacy  of  the 
"  lower  orders,"  and  he  could  rarely  bring  him 
self  to  the  point  of  taking  them  by  storm  as  a 
mere  matter  of  ecclesiastical  routine.  But  the 
oftener  he  saw  Joan  Lowrie,  the  more  heavily  she 
lay  upon  his  mind.  Every  day  his  conscience 
smote  him  more  sorely  for  his  want  of  success 
with  her.  And  yet  how  could  he  make  way  against 
her  indifference.  He  even  felt  himself  a  trifle 
spell-bound  in  her  presence.  He  often  found 
himself  watching  her  as  she  moved  to  and  fro, — 
watching  her  as  Liz  and  the  child  did. 

But  "  th'  parson  "  was  "  th'  parson  "  to  her  still. 
A  good-natured,  simple  little  fellow,  who  might 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S         79 

be  a  trifle  better  than  other  folks,  but  who  cer 
tainly  seemed  weaker ;  a  frail  little  gentleman  in 
spectacles,  who  was  afraid  of  her,  or  was  at  least 
easily  confounded ;  who  might  be  of  use  to  Liz, 
but  who  was  not  in  her  line, — better  in  his  way 
than  his  master  in  his ;  but  still  a  person  to  be  re 
garded  with  just  a  touch  of  contempt. 

The  confidence  established  betwen  Grace  and 
his  friend  Fergus  Derrick,  leading  to  the  discus 
sion  of  all  matters  connected  with  the  parish  and 
parishioners,  led  naturally  to  the  frequent  discus 
sion  of  Joan  Lowrie  among  the  rest.  Over  tea 
and  toast  in  the  small  parlor  the  two  men  often 
drew  comfort  from  each  other.  When  Derrick 
strode  into  the  little  place  and  threw  himself  into 
his  favorite  chair,  with  knit  brows  and  weary 
irritation  in  his  air,  Grace  was  always  ready  to 
detect  his  mood,  and  wait  for  him  to  reveal  him 
self;  or  when  Grace  looked  up  at  his  friend's 
entrance  with  a  heavy,  pained  look  on  his  face, 
Derrick  was  equally  quick  to  comprehend.  There 
was  one  trouble  in  which  Derrick  specially  sym 
pathized  with  his  friend.  This  was  in  his  feeling 
for  Anice. 

Duty  called  Paul  frequently  to  the  house,  and 
his  position  with  regard  to  its  inhabitants  was 
necessarily  familiar.  Mr.  Barholm  did  not  spare 
his  curate ;  he  was  ready  to  delegate  to  him  all 
labor  in  which  he  was  not  specially  interested 


8o         THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

himself,  or  which  he  regarded  as  scarcely  worthy 
of  his  mettle. 

"  Grace  makes  himself  very  useful  in  some 
cases,"  he  would  say  ;  "  a  certain  kind  of  work 
suits  him,  and  he  is  able  to  do  himself  justice  in  it. 
He  is  a  worthy  enough  young  fellow  in  a  certain 
groove,  but  it  is  always  best  to  confine  him  to 
that  groove." 

So,  when  there  was  an  ordinary  sermon  to  be 
preached,  or  a  commonplace  piece  of  work  to  be 
done,  it  was  handed  over  to  Grace,  with  a  few 
tolerant  words  of  advice  or  comment,  and  as  com 
monplace  work  was  rather  the  rule  than  the  ex 
ception,  the  Reverend  Paul's  life  was  not  idle. 
Anice's  manner  toward  her  father's  curate  was  so 
gentle  and  earnest,  so  frank  and  full  of  trust  in 
him,  that  it  was  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  each 
day  only  fixed  her  more  firmly  in  his  heart. 
Nothing  of  his  conscientious  labor  was  lost  upon 
her ;  nothing  of  his  self-sacrifice  and  trial  was 
passed  by  indifferently  in  her  thoughts  of  him ; 
his  pain  and  his  effort  went  to  her  very  heart. 
Her  belief  in  him  was  so  strong  that  she  never 
hesitated  to  carry  any  little  bewilderment  to  him 
or  to  speak  to  him  openly  upon  any  subject. 
Small  marvel,  that  he  found  it  delicious  pain  to  go 
to  the  house  day  after  day,  feeling  himself  so  near 
to  her,  yet  knowing  himself  so  far  from  any  hope 
of  reaching  the  sealed  chamber  of  her  heart. 


THAT  LASS  O'   LOWRIE'S         81 

Notwithstanding  her  knowledge  of  her  inability 
to  alter  his  position,  Anice  still  managed  to  exert 
some  slight  influence  over  her  friend's  fate. 

"  Do  you  not  think,  papa,  that  Mr.  Grace  has  a 
great  deal  to  do  ?  "  she  suggested  once,  when  he 
was  specially  overburdened. 

"  A  great  deal  to  do  ?  "  he  said.  "  Well,  he  has 
enough  to  do,  of  course,  my  dear,  but  then  it  is 
work  of  a  kind  that  suits  him.  I  never  leave  any 
thing  very  important  to  Grace.  You  do  not  mean, 
my  dear,  that  you  fancy  he  has  too  much  to  do  ?  " 

"  Rather  too  much  of  a  dull  kind,"  answered 
Anice.  "  Dull  work  is  tiring,  and  he  has  a  great 
deal  of  it  on  his  hands.  All  that  school  work,  you 
know,  papa — if  you  could  share  it  with  him,  I 
should  think  it  would  make  it  easier  for  him." 

"  My  dear  Anice,"  the  rector  protested ;  "if  Grace 
had  my  responsibilities  to  carry  on  his  shoulders, 
— but  I  do  not  leave  my  responsibilities  to  him. 
In  my  opinion  he  is  hardly  fitted  to  bear  them — 
they  are  not  in  his  line ; "  but  seeing  a  dubious 
look  on  the  delicate  face  opposite  him — "but  if 
you  think  the  young  fellow  has  really  too  much  to 
do,  I  will  try  to  take  some  of  these  minor  matters 
upon  myself.  I  am  equal  to  a  good  deal  of  hard 
work," — evidently  feeling  himself  somewhat  ag 
grieved. 

But  Anice  made  no  further  comment ;  having 
dropped  a  seed  of  suggestion,  she  left  it  to  fruc- 

6 


82         THAT  LASS  O'   LOWRIE'S 

tify,  experience  teaching  her  that  this  was  her  best 
plan.  It  was  one  of  the  good  rector's  weaknesses, 
to  dislike  to  find  his  course  disapproved  even  by 
a  wholly  uninfluential  critic,  and  his  daughter 
was  by  no  means  an  uninfluential  critic.  He  was 
never  exactly  comfortable  when  her  views  did  not 
strictly  accord  with  his  own.  To  find  that  Anice 
was  regarding  a  favorite  whim  with  questioning, 
was  for  him  to  begin  to  falter  a  trifle  inwardly, 
however  testily  rebellious  he  might  feel.  He  was 
a  man  who  thrived  under  encouragement,  and 
sank  at  once  before  failure;  failure  was  unpleas 
ant,  and  he  rarely  contended  long  against  un 
pleasantness  ;  it  was  not  a  "  fair  wind  and  no  fa 
vor  "  with  him,  he  wanted  both  the  fair  wind  and 
the  favor,  and  if  either  failed  him  he  felt  him 
self  rather  badly  used.  So  it  was,  through  this 
discreetly  exerted  influence  of  Anice's,  that  Grace, 
to  his  surprise,  found  some  irksome  tasks  taken 
from  his  shoulders  at  this  time.  He  did  not  know 
that  it  was  Anice  he  had  to  thank  for  the  tem 
porary  relief. 


CHAPTER 

Anice  at  the  Cottage 

ANICE  went  to  see  Liz.  Perhaps  if  the  truth 
were  told,  she  went  to  see  Joan  more  than  to 
visit  Joan's  firot/gte,  though  her  interest  extended 
from  the  one  to  the  other.  But  she  did  not  see 
Joan,  she  only  heard  of  her.  Liz  met  her  visitor 
without  any  manifestations  of  enthusiasm.  She 
was  grateful,  but  gratitude  was  not  often  a  pow 
erful  emotion  with  her.  But  Anice  began  to  at 
tract  her  somewhat  before  she  had  been  in  the 
house  ten  minutes.  Liz  found,  first,  that  she  was 
not  one  of  the  enemy,  and  did  not  come  to  read 
a  homily  to  her  concerning  her  sins  and  trans 
gressions  ;  having  her  mind  set  at  ease  thus  far, 
she  found  time  to  be  interested  in  her.  Her  vis 
itor's  beauty,  her  prettiness  of  toilet,  a  certain 
delicate  grace  of  presence,  were  all  virtues  in 
Liz's  eyes.  She  was  so  fond  of  pretty  things  her 
self,  she  had  been  wont  to  feel  such  pleasure  and 
pride  in  her  own  beauty,  that  such  outward 
charms  were  the  strongest  of  charms  to  her.  She 
forgot  to  be  abashed  and  miserable,  when,  after 
talking  a  few  minutes,  Anice  came  to  her  and 


84         THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

bent  over  the  child  as  it  lay  on  her  knee.  She 
even  had  the  courage  to  regard  the  material  of 
her  dress  with  some  degree  of  interest. 

"  Yo'n  getten  that  theer  i'  Lunnon,"  she  vent 
ured,  wistfully  touching  the  pretty  silk  with  her 
finger.  "  Theer's  noan  sich  i'  Riggan." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Anice,  letting  the  baby  s 
hand  cling  to  her  fingers.  "  I  bought  it  in  Lon 
don." 

Liz  touched  it  again,  and  this  time  the  wistful- 
ness  in  her  touch  crept  up  to  her  eyes,  mingled 
with  a  little  fretfulness. 

"  Ivverything's  fine  as  comes  fro'  Lunnon,"  she 
said.  "  It's  the  grandest  place  i'  th'  world.  I 
dunnot  wonder  as  th'  queen  lives  theer.  I  wur 
happy  aw  th'  toime  I  wur  theer.  I  nivver  were 
so  happy  i'  my  life.  I — I  canna  hardly  bear  to 
think  on  it — it  gi'es  me  such  a  wearyin'  an'  long- 
in'  ;  I  wish  I  could  go  back,  I  do  " — ending  with 
a  sob. 

"  Don't  think  about  it  any  more  than  you  can 
help,"  said  Anice  gently.  "  It  is  very  hard  I 
know  ;  don't  cry,  Liz." 

"  I  canna  help  it,"  sobbed  Liz ;  "  an'  I  can  no 
more  help  thinkin'  on  it,  than  th'  choild  theer  can 
help  thinkin'  on  its  milk.  I'm  hungerin'  aw  th' 
toime — an'  I  dunnot  care  to  live  ;  I  wakken  up  i' 
th'  noight  hungerin'  >an'  cryin'  fur — fur  what  I  ha' 
not  got,  an'  nivver  shall  ha'  agen." 


THAT  LASS  O'  LOWRIE'S         85 

The  tears  ran  down  her  cheeks  and  she  whim- 
pered  like  a  child.  The  sight  of  the  silk  dress  had 
brought  back  to  her  mind  her  lost  bit  of  paradise 
as  nothing  else  would  have  done — her  own  small 
store  of  finery,  the  gayety  and  novelty  of  London 
sounds  and  sights. 

Anice  knelt  down  upon  the  flagged  floor,  still 
holding  the  child's  hand. 

"  Don't  cry,"  she  said  again.  "  Look  at  the 
baby,  Liz.  It  is  a  pretty  baby.  Perhaps  if 
it  lives,  it  may  be  a  comfort  to  you  some 
day." 

"  Nay  !  it  wunnot ; "  said  Liz,  regarding  it  re 
sentfully.  "  I  nivver  could  tak'  no  comfort  in  it. 
It's  nowt  but  a  trouble.  I  dunnot  loike  it.  I 
canna.  It  would  be  better  if  it  would  na  live. 
I  canna  tell  wheer  Joan  Lowrie  gets  her  pa 
tience  fro'.  I  ha'  no  patience  with  the  little 
marred  thing  mysen — allus  whimperin'  an'  cry 
in';  I  dunnot  know  what  to  do  wi'  it  half  th' 
toime." 

Anice  took  it  from  her  lap,  and  sitting  down 
upon  a  low  wooden  stool,  held  it  gently,  looking 
at  its  small  round  face.  It  was  a  pretty  little 
creature,  pretty  with  Liz's  own  beauty,  or  at  least, 
with  the  baby  promise  of  it.  Anice  stooped  and 
kissed  it,  her  heart  stirred  by  the  feebly-strong 
clasp  of  the  tiny  fingers. 

During  the  remainder  of  her  visit,  she  sat  hold- 


86         THAT  LASS  O'   LOWRIE'S 

ing  the  child  on  her  knee,  and  talking  to  it  as  well 
as  to  its  mother.  But  she  made  no  attempt  to 
bring  Liz  to  what  Mr.  Barholm  had  called,  "  a  fit 
ting  sense  of  her  condition."  She  was  not  fully 
settled  in  her  opinion  as  to  what  Liz's  "  fitting 
sense  "  would  be.  So  she  simply  made  an  effort 
to  please  her,  and  awaken  her  to  interest,  and  she 
succeeded  very  well.  When  she  went  away,  the 
girl  was  evidently  sorry  to  see  her  go. 

"  I  dunnot  often  want  to  see  folk  twice,"  she  said, 
looking  at  her  shyly,  "  but  I'd  loike  to  see  yo'. 
Yo're  not  loike  th'  rest.  Yo'  dunnot  harry  me  wi' 
talk.  Joan  said  yo'  would  na." 

"  I  will  come  again,"  said  Anice. 

During  her  visit,  Liz  had  told  her  much  of 
Joan.  She  seemed  to  like  to  talk  of  her,  and  cer 
tainly  Anice  had  been  quite  ready  to  listen. 

"  She  is  na  easy  to  mak'  out,"  said  Liz,  "  an* 
p'r'aps  that's  th'  reason  why  folks  puts  theirsens 
to  so  much  trouble  to  mak'  her  out." 

When  he  passed  the  cottage  on  the  Knoll  Road 
in  going  home  at  night,  Fergus  could  not  help 
looking  out  for  Joan.  Sometimes  he  saw  her, 
and  sometimes  he  did  not.  During  the  warm 
weather,  he  saw  her  often  at  the  door,  or  near 
the  gate  ;  almost  always  with  the  child  in  her 
arms.  There  was  no  awkward  shrinking  in  her 
manner  at  such  times,  no  vestige  of  the  clumsy 
consciousness  usually  exhibited  by  girls  of  her 


THAT  LASS  O'   LOWRIE'S         87 

class.  She  met  his  glance  with  a  grave  quietude, 
scarcely  touched  with  interest,  he  thought;  he 
never  observed  that  she  smiled,  though  he  was 
uncomfortably  conscious  now  and  then  that  she 
stood  and  calmly  watched  him  out  of  sight. 


CHAPTER  Wll 

The  Wager  of  Battle 

"  OWD  Sammy  Craddock  "  rose  from  his  chair, 
and  going  to  the  mantel-piece,  took  down  a  to 
bacco  jar  of  red  and  yellow  delft,  and  proceeded 
to  fill  his  pipe  with  solemn  ceremony.  It  was  a 
large,  deep  clay  pipe,  and  held  a  great  deal  of  to 
bacco — particularly  when  filled  from  the  store  of 
an  acquaintance.  "  It's  a  good  enow  pipe  to  bor 
row  wi',"  Sammy  was  wont  to  remark.  In  the 
second  place,  Mr.  Craddock  drew  forth  a  goodly 
portion  of  the  weed,  and  pressed  it  down  with 
ease  and  precision  into  the  top  of  the  foreign 
gentleman's  turban  which  constituted  the  bowl. 
Then  he  lighted  it  with  a  piece  of  paper,  remark 
ing  to  his  wife  between  long  indrawn  puffs,  "  I'm 
goin'— to  th'  Public." 

The  good  woman  did  not  receive  the  intel 
ligence  as  amicably  as  it  had  been  given. 

"  Aye,"  she  said,  "  I'll  warrant  tha  art.  When 
tha  art  no  fillin'  thy  belly  tha  art  generally  either 
goin'  to  th'  Public,  or  comin'  whoam.  Aw  Rig- 
gan  ud  go  to  ruin  if  tha  wert  na  at  th'  Public  fro* 
morn  till  neet  looking  after  other  folkses  busi- 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S         89 

ness.  It's  well  for  th'  toun  as  tha'st  getten  nowt 
else  to  do." 

Sammy  puffed  away  at  his  pipe,  without  any 
appearance  of  disturbance. 

"  Aye,"  he  consented  dryly,  "  it  is,  that.  It  ud 
be  a  bad  thing  to  ha'  th'  pits  stop  workin'  aw  be 
cause  I  had  na  attended  to  'em,  an'  gi'en  th'  mes- 
ters  a  bit  o'  encouragement.  Tha  sees  mine's 
what  th'  gentlefolk  ca'  a  responsible  position  i' 
society.  Th'  biggest  trouble  I  ha',  is  settlin'  i' 
my  moind  what  th'  world  'ill  do  when  I  turn  up 
my  toes  to  th'  daisies,  an'  how  the  government'll 
mak'  up  their  moinds  who  shall  ha'  th'  honor  o' 
payin'  for  th'  moniment." 

In  Mr.  Craddock's  opinion,  his  skill  in  the  solu 
tion  of  political  and  social  problems  was  only 
equalled  by  his  aptitude  in  managing  the  weaker 
sex.  He  never  lost  his  temper  with  a  woman. 
He  might  be  sarcastic,  he  was  sometimes  even 
severe  in  his  retorts,  but  he  was  never  violent. 
In  any  one  else  but  Mr.  Craddock,  such  conduct 
might  have  been  considered  weak  by  the  male 
population  of  Riggan,  who  not  unfrequently  set 
tled  their  trifling  domestic  difficulties  with  the 
poker  and  tongues,  chairs,  or  flat-irons,  or  indeed 
with  any  portable  piece  of  household  furniture. 
But  Mr.  Craddock's  way  of  disposing  of  feminine 
antagonists  was  tolerated.  It  was  pretty  well 
known  that  Mrs.  Craddock  had  a  temper,  and 


90         THAT  LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

since  he  could  manage  her,  it  was  not  worth 
while  to  criticise  the  method. 

"  Tha'rt  an  owd  yommer-head,"  said  Mrs.  Crad- 
dock,  as  oracularly  as  if  she  had  never  made  the 
observation  before.  "  Tha  deserves  what  tha  has 
na  getten." 

"  Aye,  that  I  do,"  with  an  air  of  amiable  regret. 
"  Tha'rt  reet  theer  fur  once  i'  thy  loife.  Th' 
country  has  na  done  its  duty  by  me.  If  I'd  had 
aw  I  deserved  I'd  been  th*  Lord  Mayor  o'  Lun- 
non  by  this  toime,  an'  tha'd  a  been  th'  Lady  May 
oress,  settin'  up  i'  thy  parlor  wi'  a  goold  crown 
atop  o'  thy  owd  head,  sortin'  out  thy  cloathes  fur 
th'  wesh  woman  i'stead  o'  dollyin'  out  thy  bits  o' 
duds  fur  thysen.  Tha'rt  reet,  owd  lass — tha'rt 
reet  enow." 

"  Go  thy  ways  to  th'  Public,"  retorted  the  old 
dame  driven  to  desperation.  "  I'm  tired  o'  heark- 
enin*  to  thee.  Get  thee  gone  to  th'  Public,  or 
we'st  ha'  th'  world  standin'  still ;  an'  moind  tha 
do'st  na  set  th'  horse-ponds  afire  as  tha  goes  by 
'em." 

"I'll  be  keerful,  owd  lass,"  chuckled  Sammy, 
taking  his  stick.  "  I'll  be  keerful  for  th'  sake  o' 
th'  town." 

He  made  his  way  toward  the  village  ale-house 
in  the  best  of  humors.  Arriving  at  The  Crown, 
he  found  a  discussion  in  progress.  Discussions 
were  always  being  carried  on  there  in  fact,  but 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S         91 

this  time  it  was  not  Craddock's  particular  friends 
who  were  busy.  There  were  grades  even  among 
the  visitors  at  The  Crown,  and  there  were  several 
grades  below  Sammy's.  The  lowest  was  com- 
posed  of  the  most  disreputable  of  the  colliers — 
men  who  with  Lowrie  at  their  head  were  gener 
ally  in  some  mischief.  It  was  these  men  who  were 
talking  together  loudly  this  evening,  and  as  usual, 
Lowrie  was  the  loudest  in  the  party.  They  did 
not  seem  to  be  quarrelling.  Three  or  four  sat 
round  a  table  listening  to  Lowrie  with  black 
looks,  and  toward  them  Sammy  glanced  as  he 
came  in. 

"What's  up  in  them  fellys?"  he  asked  of  a 
friend. 

"  Summat's  wrong  at  th'  pit,"  was  the  answer. 
"  I  canna  mak'  out  what  mysen.  Summat  about 
one  o'  th'  mesters  as  they're  out  wi*.  What'll  tha 
tak',  owd  lad  ?  " 

"  A  pint  o'  sixpenny."  And  then  with  another 
sidelong  glance  at  the  debaters : 

"  They're  an  ill  set,  that  lot,  an'  up  to  summat 
ill  too,  I'll  warrant.  He's  not  the  reet  soart,  that 
Lowrie." 

Lowrie  was  a  burly  fellow  with  a  surly,  some 
times  ferocious,  expression.  Drink  made  a  mad 
man  of  him,  and  among  his  companions  he  ruled 
supreme  through  sheer  physical  superiority.  The 
man  who  quarrelled  with  him  might  be  sure  of 


92         THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

broken  bones,  if  not  of  something  worse.  He 
leaned  over  the  table  now,  scowling  as  he  spoke. 

"  I'll  ha*  no  lads  meddlin'  an'  settin'  th'  mesters 
agen  me"  Craddock  heard  him  say.  "  Them  on 
yo'  as  loikes  to  tak'  cheek  mun  tak'  it,  I'm  too 
owd  a  bird  fur  that  soart  o'  feed.  It  sticks  i*  my 
crop.  Look  thee  out  o'  that  theer  window,  Jock, 
and  watch  who  passes.  I'll  punse  that  lad  into 
th'  middle  o'  next  week,  as  sure  as  he  goes  by." 

"  Well,"  commented  one  of  his  companions, 
"  aw  I've  gotten  to  say  is,  as  tha'll  be  loike  to  ha* 
a  punse  on  it,  fur  he's  a  strappin'  youngster,  an* 
noan  so  easy  feart." 

"  Da'st  ta  mean  to  say  as  I  conna  do  it  ?  "  de 
manded  Lowrie  fiercely. 

"  Nay — nay,  mon,"  was  the  pacific  and  rather 
hasty  reply.  "  Nowt  o'  th'  soart.  I  on'y  meant 
as  it  was  na  ivvery  mon  as  could." 

"  Aye,  to  be  sure ! "  said  Sammy  testily  to  his 
friend.  "  That's  th'  game  is  it  ?  Theer's  a  feight 
on  hond.  That's  reet,  my  lads,  lay  in  thy  beer, 
an*  mak*  dom'd  fools  o'  thysens,  an'  tha'lt  get  a 
chance  to  sleep  on  th'  soft  side  o'  a  paving-stone 
i'  th'  lock-ups." 

He  had  been  a  fighting  man  himself  in  his 
young  days,  and  had  prided  himself  particularly 
upon  "  showing  his  muscle,"  in  Riggan  parlance, 
but  he  had  never  been  such  a  man  as  Lowrie. 
His  comparatively  gentlemanly  encounters  with 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S         93 

personal  friends  had  always  been  fair  and  square, 
and  in  many  cases  had  laid  the  foundation  for 
future  toleration,  even  amiability.  He  had  never 
hesitated  to  "  tak'  a  punse  "  at  an  offending  indi 
vidual,  but  he  had  always  been  equally  ready  to 
shake  hands  when  all  was  over,  and  in  some  cases, 
when  having  temporarily  closed  a  companion's 
eyes  in  the  heat  of  an  argument,  he  had  been 
known  to  lead  him  to  the  counter  of  "  th*  Public," 
and  bestow  nectar  upon  him  in  the  form  of  "  six 
penny."  But  of  Lowrie,  even  the  fighting  com 
munity,  which  was  the  community  predominating 
in  Riggan,  could  not  speak  so  well.  He  was  "  ill- 
f arrant,"  and  revengeful, — ready  to  fight,  but  not 
ready  to  forgive.  He  had  been  known  to  bear  a 
grudge,  and  remember  it,  when  it  had  been  for 
gotten  by  other  people.  His  record  was  not  a 
clean  one,  and  accordingly  he  was  not  a  favorite 
of  Sammy  Craddock's. 

A  short  time  afterward  somebody  passed  the 
window  facing  the  street,  and  Lowrie  started  up 
with  an  oath. 

"  Theer  he  is  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Now  fur  it. 
I  thowt  he'd  go  this  road.  I'll  see  what  tha's 
getten  to  say  fur  thysen,  my  lad." 

He  was  out  in  the  street  almost  before  Crad- 
dock  and  his  companion  had  time  to  reach  the 
open  window,  and  he  had  stopped  the  passer-by, 
who  paused  to  confront  him  haughtily. 


94         THAT   LASS  O'   LOWRIE'S 

"  Why ! "  cried  Sammy,  slapping  his  knee, 
"  I'm  dom'd  if  it  is  na  th'  Lunnon  engineer 
chap." 

Fergus  Derrick  stood  before  his  enemy  with 
anything  but  a  propitiatory  air.  That  this  brutal 
fellow  who  had  caused  him  trouble  enough  al 
ready,  should  interfere  with  his  very  progress  in 
the  street,  was  too  much  for  his  high  spirit  to 
bear. 

"  I  comn  out  here,"  said  Lowrie,  "  to  see  if  tha 
had  owt  to  say  to  me." 

"  Then,"  replied  Fergus,  "  you  may  go  in  again, 
for  I  have  nothing." 

Lowrie  drew  a  step  nearer  to  him. 

"Art  tha  sure  o'that?"  he  demanded.  "Tha 
wert  so  ready  wi'  thy  gab  about  th'  Davys  this 
mornin'  I  thowt  happen  tha'd  loike  to  say  sum- 
mat  more  if  a  mon  ud  gi'  yo'  a  chance.  But  hap 
pen  agen  yo're  one  o'  th'  soart  as  sticks  to  gab  an' 
goes  no  further." 

Derrick's  eyes  blazed,  he  flung  out  his  open 
hand  in  a  contemptuous  gesture. 

"  Out  of  the  way,"  he  said,  in  a  suppressed 
voice,  "  and  let  me  pass." 

But  Lowrie  only  came  nearer. 

"  Nay,  but  I  wunnot,"  he  said,  "  until  I've  said 
my  say.  Tha  wert  goin'  to  mak*  me  obey  th' 
rules  or  let  th'  mesters  hear  on  it,  wert  tha  ?  Tha 
wert  goin'  to  keep  thy  eye  on  me,  an*  report 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S         9; 

when  th'  toime  come,  wert  tha  ?  Well,  th'  toime 
has  na  come  yet,  and  now  I'm  goin'  to  gi'  thec  a 
thrashin'." 

He  sprang  upon  him  with  a  ferocity  which 
would  have  flung  to  the  earth  any  man  who  had 
not  possessed  the  thews  and  sinews  of  a  lion. 
Derrick  managed  to  preserve  his  equilibrium. 
After  the  first  blow,  he  could  not  control  himself. 
Naturally,  he  had  longed  to  thrash  this  fellow 
soundly  often  enough,  and  now  that  he  had  been 
attacked  by  him,  he  felt  forbearance  to  be  no  virt 
ue.  Brute  force  could  best  conquer  brute  nat 
ure.  He  felt  that  he  would  rather  die  a  thousand 
deaths  than  be  conquered  himself.  He  put  forth 
all  his  strength  in  an  effort  that  awakened  the 
crowd — which  had  speedily  surrounded  them, 
Owd  Sammy  among  the  number — to  wild  admi 
ration. 

"  Get  thee  unto  it,  lad,"  cried  the  old  sinner  in 
an  ecstasy  of  approbation,  "  Get  thee  unto  it ! 
Tha'rt  shapin'  reet  I  see.  Why,  I'm  dom'd," 
slapping  his  knee  as  usual — "I'm  dom'd  if  he  is 
na  goin'  to  mill  Dan  Lowrie ! " 

To  the  amazement  of  the  by-standers,  it  became 
evident  in  a  very  short  time,  that  Lowrie  had 
met  his  match.  Finding  it  necessary  to  defend 
himself,  Derrick  was  going  to  do  something 
more.  The  result  was  that  the  breathless  strug 
gle  for  the  mastery  ended  in  a  crash,  and  Lowrie 


96         THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

lay  upon  the  pavement,  Fergus  Derrick  standing 
above  him  pale,  fierce  and  panting. 

"  Look  to  him,"  he  said  to  the  men  about  him, 
in  a  white  heat,  "  and  remember  that  the  fellow 
provoked  me  to  it.  If  he  tries  it  again,  I  will 
try  again  too."  And  he  turned  on  his  heel  and 
walked  away. 

He  had  been  far  more  tolerant,  even  in  his 
wrath,  than  most  men  would  have  been,  but  he 
had  disposed  of  his  enemy  effectually.  The  fel 
low  lay  stunned  upon  the  ground.  In  his  fall, 
he  had  cut  his  head  upon  the  curbstone,  and 
the  blood  streamed  from  the  wound  when  his 
companions  crowded  near,  and  raised  him. 
Owd  Sammy  Craddock  offered  no  assistance ; 
he  leaned  upon  his  stick,  and  looked  on  with 
grim  satisfaction. 

"  Tha's  getten  what  tha  deserved,  owd  lad," 
he  said  in  an  undertone.  "  An'  tha'st  getten  no 
more.  Fst  owe  th'  Lunnon  chap  one  fro*  this  on. 
He's  done  a  bit  o'  work  as  I'd  ha'  takken  i'  hond 
mysen  long  ago,  if  I'd  ha'  been  thirty  years 
younger,  an'  a  bit  less  stiff  i'  th'  hinges." 

Fergus  had  not  escaped  without  hurt  himself, 
and  the  first  angry  excitement  over,  he  began  to 
feel  so  sharp  an  ache  in  his  wrist,  that  he  made 
up  his  mind  to  rest  for  a  few  minutes  at  Grace's 
lodgings  before  going  home.  It  would  be  wise 
to  know  the  extent  of  his  injury. 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S         97 

Accordingly,  he  made  his  appearance  in  the 
parlor,  somewhat  startling  his  friend,  who  was  at 
supper. 

"  My  dear  Fergus  !  "  exclaimed  Paul.  "  How 
excited  you  look !  " 

Derrick  flung  himself  into  a  chair,  feeling  rather 
dubious  about  his  strength,  all  at  once. 

"Do  I  ?  "  he  said,  with  a  faint  smile.  "  Don't 
be  alarmed,  Grace,  I  have  no  doubt  I  look  as  I 
feel.  I  have  been  having  a  brush  with  that  scoun 
drel  Lowrie,  and  I  believe  something  has  hap 
pened  to  my  wrist." 

He  made  an  effort  to  raise  his  left  hand  and 
failed,  succumbing  to  a  pain  so  intense  that  it 
forced  an  exclamation  from  him. 

"  I  thought  it  was  a  sprain,"  he  said,  when  he 
recovered  himself,  "  but  it  is  a  job  for  a  surgeon. 
It  is  broken." 

And  so  it  proved  under  the  examination  of  the 
nearest  practitioner,  and  then  Derrick  remem 
bered  a  wrench  and  shock  which  he  had  felt  in 
Lowrie's  last  desperate  effort  to  recover  himself. 
Some  of  the  small  bones  had  broken. 

Grace  called  in  the  surgeon  himself,  and  stood 
by  during  the  strapping  and  bandaging  with  an 
anxious  face,  really  suffering  as  much  as  Derrick, 
perhaps  a  trifle  more.  He  would  not  hear  of  his 
going  home  that  night,  but  insisted  that  he  should 
remain  where  he  was. 
7 


98         THAT   LASS  O'   LOWRIE'S 

"  I  can  sleep  on  the  lounge  myself,"  he  pro- 
tested.  "  And  though  I  shall  be  obliged  to  leave 
you  for  half  an  hour,  I  assure  you  I  shall  not  be 
away  a  longer  time." 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  "  asked  Derrick. 

"  To  the  Rectory.  Mr.  Barholm  sent  a  mes 
sage  an  hour  ago,  that  he  wished  to  see  me  upon 
business." 

Fergus  agreed  to  remain.  When  Grace  was 
on  the  point  of  leaving  the  room,  he  turned  his 
head. 

"  You  are  going  to  the  Rectory,  you  say  ?  "  he 
remarked. 

"  Yes." 

"  Do  you  think  you  shall  see  Anice  ?  " 

"  It  is  very  probable,"  confusedly. 

"  I  merely  thought  I  would  ask  you  not  to  men- 
tion  this  affair  to  her,"  said  Derrick.  The  Curate's 
face  assumed  an  expression  at  that  moment,  which 
it  was  well  that  his  friend  did  not  see.  A  shadow 
of  bewilderment  and  anxiety  fell  upon  it  and  the 
color  faded  away. 

"  You  think—"  faltered  he. 

"  Well,  I  thought  that  perhaps  it  would  shock 
or  alarm  her,"  answered  Derrick.  "She  might 
fancy  it  to  have  been  a  more  serious  matter  than 
it  was." 

"  Very  well.     I  think  you  are  right,  perhaps.** 


CHAPTER  IX 

The  News  at  tbe  Rectory 

IF  she  did  not  hear  of  the  incident  from  Grace, 
Anice  heard  of  it  from  another  quarter. 

The  day  following,  the  village  was  ringing  with 
the  particulars  of  "th'  feight  betwix'  th'  Lunnon 
chap  an'  Dan  Lowrie." 

Having  occasion  to  go  out  in  the  morning,  Mr. 
Barholm  returned  to  luncheon  in  a  state  of  great 
excitement. 

" Dear  me!"  he  began,  almost  as  soon  as  he  en 
tered  the  room.  "  Bless  my  life  !  what  ill-condi 
tioned  animals  these  colliers  are  ! " 

Anice  and  her  mother  regarded  him  question 
ably. 

"  What  do  you  suppose  I  have  just  heard  ?  "  he 
went  on.  "  Mr.  Derrick  has  had  a  very  unpleas 
ant  affair  with  one  of  the  men  who  work  under 
him — no  other  than  that  Lowrie — the  young 
woman's  father.  They  are  a  bad  lot  it  seems, 
and  Lowrie  had  a  spite  against  Derrick,  and  at 
tacked  him  openly,  and  in  the  most  brutal  man 
ner,  as  he  was  going  through  the  village  yester- 
d?,v  evening." 


ioo      THAT   LASS   O'    LOWRIE'S 

"Are  you  sure?"  cried  Anice.  "Oh!  papa/' 
and  she  put  her  hand  upon  the  table  as  if  she 
needed  support. 

"  There  is  not  the  slightest  doubt,"  was  the  an 
swer,  "  everybody  is  talking  about  it.  It  appears 
that  it  is  one  of  the  strictest  rules  of  the  mine 
that  the  men  shall  keep  their  Davy  lamps  locked 
while  they  are  in  the  pit — indeed  they  are  di 
rected  to  deliver  up  their  keys  before  going 
down,  and  Derrick  having  strong  suspicions  that 
Lowrie  had  procured  a  false  key,  gave  him  a 
rather  severe  rating  about  it,  and  threatened  to 
report  him,  and  the  end  of  the  matter  was  the 
trouble  of  yesterday.  The  wonder  is,  that  Der 
rick  came  off  conqueror.  They  say  he  gave  the 
fellow  a  sound  thrashing.  There  is  a  good  deal 
of  force  in  that  young  man,"  he  said,  rubbing  his 
hands.  "  There  is  a  good  deal  of — of  pluck  in 
him — as  we  used  to  say  at  Oxford." 

Anice  shrank  from  her  father's  evident  enjoy 
ment,  feeling  a  mixture  of  discomfort  and  dread. 
Suppose  the  tables  had  turned  the  other  way. 
Suppose  it  had  been  Lowrie  who  had  conquered. 
She  had  heard  of  horrible  things  done  by  such 
men  in  their  blind  rage.  Lowrie  would  not  have 
paused  where  Derrick  did.  The  newspapers 
told  direful  tales  of  such  struggles  ending  in  the 
conquered  being  stamped  upon,  maimed,  beaten 
out  of  life. 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S       loi 

"It  is  very  strange,"  she  said,  almost  impa 
tiently.  "  Mr.  Grace  must  have  known,  and  yet 
he  said  nothing.  I  wish  he  would  come." 

As  chance  had  it,  the  door  opened  just  at  that 
moment,  and  the  Curate  was  announced.  He 
was  obliged  to  drop  in  at  all  sorts  of  unceremoni 
ous  hours,  and  to-day  some  school  business  had 
brought  him.  The  Rector  turned  to  greet  him 
with  unwonted  warmth.  "  The  very  man  we 
want,"  he  exclaimed.  "  Anice  was  just  wishing 
for  you.  We  have  been  talking  of  this  difficulty 
between  Derrick  and  Lowrie,  and  we  are  anxious 
to  hear  what  you  know  about  it." 

Grace  glanced  at  Anice  uneasily. 

"  We  wanted  to  know  if  Mr.  Derrick  was  quite 
uninjured,"  she  said.  "  Papa  did  not  hear  that 
he  was  hurt  at  all,  but  you  will  be  able  to  tell  us." 

There  was  an  expression  in  her  upraised  eyes 
the  Curate  had  never  seen  there. 

"He  met  with  an  injury,"  he  answered,  "but  it 
was  not  a  severe  one.  He  came  to  my  rooms 
last  night  and  remained  with  me.  His  wrist  is 
fractured." 

He  was  not  desirous  of  discussing  the  subject 
very  freely,  it  was  evident,  even  to  Mr.  Barholm, 
who  was  making  an  effort  to  draw  him  out.  He 
seemed  rather  to  avoid  it,  after  he  had  made  a 
brief  statement  of  what  he  knew.  In  his  secret 
heart,  he  shrank  from  it  with  a  dread  far  more 


102       THAT   LASS  O'   LOWRIE'S 

nervous  than  Anice's.  He  had  doubts  of  his  own 
concerning  Lowrie's  action  in  the  future.  Thus 
the  Rector's  excellent  spirits  grated  on  him,  and 
he  said  but  little. 

Anice  was  silent  too.  After  luncheon,  how- 
ever,  she  went  into  a  small  conservatory  adjoin 
ing  the  room,  and  before  Grace  took  his  depart 
ure,  she  called  him  to  her. 

"  It  is  very  strange  that  you  did  not  tell  us  last 
night,"  she  said  ;  "why  did  you  not?" 

"  It  was  Derrick's  forethought  for  you,"  he  an 
swered.  "  He  was  afraid  that  the  story  would 
alarm  you,  and  as  I  agreed  with  him  that  it 
might,  I  remained  silent.  I  might  as  well  have 
spoken,  it  appears." 

"  He  thought  it  would  frighten  me  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Yes." 

"  Has  this  accident  made  him  ill?" 

"  No,  not  ill,  though  the  fracture  is  a  very  pain- 
ful  and  inconvenient  one." 

"  I  am  very  sorry ;  please  tell  him  so.  And, 
Mr.  Grace,  when  he  feels  able  to  come  here,  I 
have  something  to  say  to  him." 

Derrick  marched  into  the  Barholm  parlor  that 
very  night  with  his  arm  in  splints  and  bandages. 

It  was  a  specially  pleasant  and  homelike  evening 
to  him;  Mrs.  Barholm's  gentle  heart  went  out  to 
the  handsome  invalid.  She  had  never  had  a  son 
of  her  own,  though  it  must  be  confessed  she  had 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S        103 

yearned  for  one,  strong  and  deep  as  was  her  af 
fection  for  her  girl. 

But  it  was  not  till  Derrick  bade  Anice  good 
night,  that  he  heard  what  she  intended  to  say  to 
him.  When  he  was  going,  just  as  he  stepped 
across  the  threshold  of  the  entrance  door,  she 
stopped  him. 

"  Wait  a  minute,  if  you  will  be  so  good,"  she 
said,  "  I  have  something  to  ask  of  you." 

He  paused,  half  smiling. 

"  I  thought  you  had  forgotten,"  he  returned. 

"  Oh  !  no,  I  had  not  forgotten,"  she  answered. 
"  But  it  will  only  seem  a  very  slight  thing  to  you 
perhaps."  Then  she  began  again,  after  a  pause. 
"  If  you  please,  do  not  think  I  am  a  coward,"  she 
said. 

"  A  coward !  "  he  repeated. 

"  You  were  afraid  to  let  Mr.  Grace  tell  me 
about  your  accident  last  night  and  though  it  was 
very  kind  of  you,  I  did  not  like  it.  You  must  not 
think  that  because  these  things  are  new  and  shock 
me,  I  am  not  strong  enough  to  trust  in.  I  am 
stronger  than  I  look." 

"  My  dear  Miss  Barholm,"  he  protested,  "  I  am 
sure  of  that.  I  ought  to  have  known  better. 
Forgive  me  if — " 

"  Oh,"  she  interposed,  "  you  must  not  blame 
yourself.  But  I  wanted  to  ask  you  to  be  so  kind 
as  to  think  better  of  me  than  that.  I  want  to  be 


104       THAT  LASS  O'  LOWRIE'S 

sure  that  if  ever  I  can  be  of  use  to  anybody,  you 
will  not  stop  to  think  of  the  danger  or  annoyance. 
Such  a  time  may  never  come,  but  if  it  does — " 

"  I  shall  certainly   remember  what  you  have 
said,"  Fergus  ended  for  her. 


CHAPTER  X 

On  tbe  Knoll  Road 

THE  moon  was  shining  brightly  when  he 
stepped  into  the  open  road — so  brightly  that  he 
could  see  every  object  far  before  him  unless 
where  the  trees  cast  their  black  shadows,  which 
seemed  all  the  blacker  for  the  light.  "  What  a 
grave  little  creature  she  is ! "  he  was  saying  to 
himself.  But  he  stopped  suddenly ;  under  one 
of  the  trees  by  the  roadside  some  one  was  stand 
ing  motionless;  as  he  approached,  the  figure 
stepped  boldly  out  into  the  moonlight  before 
him.  It  was  a  woman. 

"  Dunnot  be  afeard,"  she  said,  in  a  low, 
hurried  voice.  "  It's  me,  mester  —  it's  Joan 
Lowrie." 

"  Joan  Lowrie  !  "  he  said  with  surprise.  "  What 
has  brought  you  out  at  this  hour,  and  whom  are 
you  waiting  for  ?  " 

"  I'm  waiting  for  yo'rsen,"  she  answered. 

"  For  me  ?  " 

"  Aye  ;  I  ha'  summat  to  say  to  you." 

She  looked  about  her  hurriedly. 

"  Yo'd  better  come  into  th'  shade  o'  them  trees,'; 


lob       THAT    LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

she  said,  "  I  dunnot  want  to  gi'  any  one  a  chance 
to  see  me  nor  yo'  either." 

It  was  impossible  that  he  should  not  hesitate 
a  moment.  If  she  had  been  forced  into  entrap 
ping  him  ! 

She  made  a  sharp  gesture. 

"  I  am  na  goin'  to  do  no  harm,"  she  said.  "  Yo' 
may  trust  me.  It's  th'  other  way  about." 

"  I  ask  pardon,"  he  said,  feeling  heartily  ashamed 
of  himself  the  next  instant,  "but  you  know — " 

"Aye,"  impatiently,  as  they  passed  into  the 
shadow,  "  I  know,  or  I  should  na  be  here  now." 

A  moonbeam,  finding  its  way  through  a  rift  in 
the  boughs  and  falling  on  her  face,  showed  him 
that  she  was  very  pale. 

"  Yo'  wonder  as  I'm  here  at  aw,"  she  said,  not 
meeting  his  eyes  as  she  spoke,  "  but  yo'  did  me  a 
good  turn  onct,  an'  I  ha'  na  had  so  many  done 
me  i'  my  loife  as  I  can  forget  one  on  'em.  I'm 
come  here — fur  I  may  as  well  mak'  as  few  words 
on't  as  I  con — I  come  here  to  tell  yo'  to  tak'  heed 
o'  Dan  Lowrie." 

"  What  ? "  said  Fergus.  "  He  bears  me  a 
grudge,  does  he?" 

"  Aye,  he  bears  thee  grudge  enow,"  she  said. 
"  He  bears  thee  that  much  grudge  that  if  he 
could  lay  his  hond  on  thee,  while  th'  heat's  on 
him,  he'd  kill  thee  or  dee.  He  will  na  be  so  bit 
ter  after  a  while,  happen,  but  he'd  do  it  now,  and 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S        107 

that's  why  I  warn  thee.  Tha  has  no  reet  to  be 
goin'  out  loike  this,"  glancing  at  his  bandaged 
arm.  "  How  could  tha  help  thysen  if  he  were  to 
set  on  thee?  Tha  had  better  tak'  heed,  I  tell 
thee." 

"  I  am  very  much  indebted  to  you,"  began 
Fergus. 

She  stopped  him. 

"  Tha  did  me  a  good  turn,"  she  said.  And  then 
her  voice  changed.  "  Dan  Lowrie's  my  feyther, 
an'  I've  stuck  to  him,  I  dunnot  know  why — hap 
pen  cause  I  never  had  nowt  else  to  hold  to  and 
do  for ;  but  feyther  or  no  feyther  I  know  he's  a 
bad  un  when  th'  fit's  on  an'  he  has  a  spite  agen  a 
mon.  So  tak'  care,  I  tell  thee  agen.  Theer  now, 
I've  done.  Will  tha  walk  on  first  an'  let  me  fol 
low  thee  ?  " 

Something  in  her  mode  of  making  this  sugges 
tion  impressed  him  singularly. 

"  I  do  not  quite  understand — "  he  said. 

She  turned  and  looked  at  him,  her  face  white 
and  resolute. 

"  I  dunnot  want  harm  done,"  she  answered. 
"  I  will  na  ha'  harm  done  if  I  con  help  it,  an'  if  I 
mun  speak  th'  truth  I  know  theer's  harm  afoot 
to-neet.  If  I'm  behind  thee,  theer  is  na  a  mon  i' 
Riggan  as  dare  lay  hond  on  thee  to  my  face,  if  I 
am  nowt  but  a  lass.  That's  why  I  ax  thee  to  let 
me  keep  i'  soight." 


io8       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

"  You  are  a  brave  woman,"  he  said,  "and  I  will 
do  as  you  tell  me,  but  I  feel  like  a  coward." 

"Theer  is  no  need  as  you  should,"  she  an 
swered  in  a  softened  voice.  "  Yo'  dunnot  seem 
loike  one  to  me." 

Derrick  bent  suddenly,  and  taking  her  hand, 
raised  it  to  his  lips.  At  this  involuntary  act  of 
homage — for  it  was  nothing  less — Joan  Lowrie 
looked  up  at  him  with  startled  eyes. 

"  I  am  na  a  lady,"  she  said,  and  drew  her  hand 
away. 

They  went  out  into  the  road  together,  he  first, 
she  following  at  a  short  distance,  so  that  nobody 
seeing  the  one  could  avoid  seeing  the  other.  It 
was  an  awkward  and  trying  position  for  a  man 
of  Derrick's  temperament,  and  under  some  cir 
cumstances  he  would  have  rebelled  against  it ;  as 
it  was,  he  could  not  feel  humiliated. 

At  a  certain  dark  bend  in  the  road  not  far  from 
Lowrie's  cottage,  Joan  halted  suddenly  and 
spoke. 

"  Feyther,"  she  said,  in  a  clear  steady  voice,  "  is 
na  that  yo'  standin'  theer?  I  thowt  yo'd  happen 
to  be  comin'  whoam  this  way.  Wheer  has  tha 
been?"  And  as  he  passed  on,  Derrick  caught 
the  sound  of  a  muttered  oath,  and  gained  a  side 
glimpse  of  a  heavy,  slouching  figure  coming 
stealthily  out  of  the  shadow. 


CHAPTER  XI 
Nib  and  His  Master  Make  a  Catt 

"  Hoo's  a  queer  little  wench,"  said  one  of  the 
roughest  Rigganite  matrons,  after  Anice's  first 
visit.  "  I  wur  i'  th'  middle  o'  my  weshin  when 
she  coom, — up  to  th'  neck  i'  th'  suds, — and  I  wur 
vexed  enow  when  I  seed  her  standin'  i'  th'  door, 
lookin'  at  me  wi'  them  big  eyes  o'  hers — most 
loike  a  babby's  wonderin'  at  summat.  '  We  dun- 
not  want  none,'  I  says,  soart  o'  sharp  loike,  th' 
minute  I  clapped  my  eyes  on  her.  'Theer's  no 
one  here  as  can  read,  an'  none  on  us  has  no  toime 
to  spare  if  we  could,  so  we  dunnot  want  none.' 
'  Dunnot  want  no  what  ?  '  she  says.  '  No  tracks,' 
says  I.  And  what  do  yo'  think  she  does,  lasses? 
Why,  she  begins  to  soart  o'  dimple  up  about  th' 
corners  o'  her  mouth  as  if  I'd  said  summat  reight 
down  queer,  an'  she  gi'es  a  bit  o'  a  laff.  '  Well,' 
she  says,  '  I'm  glad  o'  that.  It's  a  good  thing,  fur 
I  hav'n't  got  none.'  An'  then  it  turns  out  that 
she  just  stopped  fur  nowt  but  to  leave  some  owd 
linen  an*  salve  for  to  dress  that  sore  hond  Jack 
crushed  i'  th'  pit.  He'd  towd  her  about  it  as  he 
his  work,  and  she  promised  to  bring  him 


no       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

some.  An'  what's  more,  she  wouldna  coom  in, 
but  just  gi'  it  me,  an'  went  her  ways,  as  if  she  had 
na  been  th'  Parson's  lass  at  aw,  but  just  one  of 
th'  common  koind,  as  knowd  how  to  moind  her 
own  business  an'  leave  other  folkses  a-be." 

The  Rigganites  became  quite  accustomed  to 
the  sight  of  Anice's  small  low  phaeton,  with  its 
comfortable  fat  gray  pony.  She  was  a  pleasant 
sight  herself  as  she  sat  in  it,  her  little  whip  in  her 
small  gloved  hand,  and  no  one  was  ever  sorry  to 
see  her  check  the  gray  pony  before  the  door. 

"  Anice ! "  said  Mr.  Barholm  to  his  curate, 
"well!  you  see  Anice  understands  these  people, 
and  they  understand  her.  She  has  the  faculty  of 
understanding  them.  There  is  nothing,  you  may 
be  assured,  Grace,  like  understanding  the  lower 
orders,  and  entering  into  their  feelings." 

There  was  one  member  of  Riggan  society  who 
had  ranged  himself  among  Miss  Barholm's  dis 
ciples  from  the  date  of  his  first  acquaintance  with 
her,  who  was  her  staunch  friend  and  adviser 
from  that  time  forward — the  young  master  of 
"  th'  best  tarrier  i'  Riggan."  Neither  Jud  Bates 
nor  Nib  faltered  in  their  joint  devotions  from  the 
hour  of  their  first  introduction  to  "th*  Parson's 
daughter."  When  they  presented  themselves  at 
the  Rectory  together,  the  cordiality  of  Nib's 
reception  had  lessened  his  master's  awkwardness. 
Nib  was  neither  awkward  nor  one  whit  abashed 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S        in 

upon  his  entree  into  a  sphere  so  entirely  new  to 
him  as  a  well-ordered,  handsomely  furnished 
house.  Once  inside  the  parlor,  Jud  had  lost 
courage  and  stood  fumbling  his  ragged  cap,  but 
Nib  had  bounced  forward,  in  the  best  of  good 
spirits,  barking  in  friendly  recognition  of  Miss 
Barholm's  greeting  caress,  and  licking  her  hand. 
Through  Nib,  Anice  contrived  to  inveigle  Jud 
into  conversation  and  make  him  forget  his  over- 
whelming  confusion.  Catching  her  first  glimpse 
of  the  lad  as  he  stood  upon  the  threshold  with 
his  dubious  garments  and  his  abashed  air,  she 
was  not  quite  decided  what  she  was  to  do  with 
him.  But  Nib  came  to  her  assistance.  He  forced 
himself  upon  her  attention  and  gave  her  some 
thing  to  say,  and  her  manner  of  receiving  him 
was  such,  that  in  a  few  minutes  she  found  Jud 
sidling  toward  her,  as  she  half  knelt  on  the 
hearth  patting  his  favorite's  rough  back.  Jud 
looked  down  at  her,  and  she  looked  up  at  Jud. 

"  Have  you  taught  him  to  do  anything  ?  "  she 
asked.  "  Does  he  know  any  tricks  ?  " 

"  He'll  kill  more  rats  i'  ten  minutes  than  ony 
dog  i'  Riggan.  He's  th'  best  tarrier  fur  rats  as 
tha  ivver  seed.  He's  th'  best  tarrier  for  owt  as 
tha  ivver  seed.  Theer  is  nowt  as  he  canna  do. 
He  con  feight  ony  dog  as  theer  is  fro'  heer  to 
Marfort."  And  he  glowed  in  all  the  pride  of  pos 
session,  and  stooped  down  to  pat  Nib  himself. 


ii2       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

He  was  quite  communicative  after  this.  He 
was  a  shrewd  little  fellow  and  had  not  spent  his 
ten  years  in  the  mining  districts  for  nothing1. 
He  was  thoroughly  conversant  with  the  ways  of 
the  people  his  young  hostess  wished  to  hear 
about.  He  had  worked  in  the  pits  a  little,  and  he 
had  tramped  about  the  country  with  Nib  at  his 
heels  a  great  deal.  He  was  supposed  to  live 
with  his  father  and  grandmother,  but  he  was  left 
entirely  to  himself,  unless  when  he  was  put  to  a 
chance  job.  He  knew  Joan  Lowrie  and  pro 
nounced  her  a  "  brave  un ; "  he  knew  and  rever 
enced  "  Owd  Sammy  Craddock ;  "  he  knew  Joan's 
father  and  evidently  regarded  him  with  distrust ; 
in  fact  there  was  not  a  man,  woman  or  child  in 
the  place  of  whom  he  did  not  know  something. 

Mr.  Barholm  happening  to  enter  the  room 
during  the  interview,  found  his  daughter  seated 
on  a  low  seat  with  Nib's  head  on  her  knee,  and 
Jud  a  few  feet  from  her.  She  was  so  intent  on 
the  task  of  entertaining  her  guest  that  she  did 
not  hear  her  father's  entrance,  and  the  Reverend 
Harold  left  the  three  together,  himself  in  rather  a 
bewildered  frame  of  mind. 

"Do  you  know?"  he  asked  of  his  wife  when 
he  found  her,  "do  you  know  who  it  is  Anice  is 
amusing  in  the  parlor?  What  singular  fancies 
the  girl  has,  with  all  her  good  sense ! " 


CHAPTER   XII 
On  Guard 

THOUGH  they  saw  comparatively  little  of  each 
other,  the  friendly  feeling  established  between 
Anice  and  Joan,  in  their  first  interview,  gained 
strength  gradually  as  time  went  on.  Coming 
home  from  her  work  at  noon  or  at  night,  Joan 
would  see  traces  of  Anice's  presence,  and  listen 
to  Liz's  praises  of  her.  Liz  was  fond  of  her  and 
found  comfort  in  her.  The  days  when  the  gray 
pony  came  to  a  stop  in  his  jog-trot  on  the  road 
side  before  the  gate  had  a  kind  of  pleasurable 
excitement  in  them.  They  were  the  sole  spice 
of  her  life.  She  understood  Anice  as  little  as  she 
understood  Joan,  but  she  liked  her.  She  had  a 
vague  fancy  that  in  some  way  Anice  was  like 
Joan ;  that  there  was  the  same  strength  in  her, — 
a  strength  upon  which  she  herself  might  depend. 
And  then  she  found  even  a  stronger  attraction  in 
her  visitor's  personal  adornments,  in  her  graceful 
dress,  in  any  elegant  trifle  she  wore.  She  liked 
to  look  at  her  clothes  and  ask  questions  about 
them,  and  wonder  how  she  would  look  if  she  were 
the  possessor  of  such  beautiful  things. 


114       THAT   LASS   O7   LOWRIE'S 

"  She  \vur  loike  a  pictur,"  she  would  say  mourn 
fully  to  Joan.  "She  had  a  blue  gown  on,  an'  a 
hat  wi'  blue-bells  in  it,  an'  summat  white  an*  soft 
frilled  up  round  her  neck.  Eh !  it  wur  pretty.  I 
wish  I  wur  a  lady.  I  dunnot  see  why  ivverybody 
canna  be  a  lady  an'  have  such  loike." 

Later  Joan  got  up  and  went  to  the  child,  who 
lay  upon  the  bed  in  a  corner  of  the  room. 

There  were  thoughts  at  work  within  her  of 
which  Liz  knew  nothing.  Liz  only  looked  at  her 
wondering  as  she  took  the  sleeping  baby  in  her 
arms,  and  began  to  pace  the  floor,  walking  to  and 
fro  with  a  slow  step. 

"  Have  I  said  owt  to  vex  yo'  ?  "  said  Liz. 

"No,  lass,"  was  the  answer,  "it  is  na  thee  as 
worrits  me.  I  con  scarce  tell  what  it  is  mysen, 
but  it  is  na  thee,  nivver  fear." 

But  there  was  a  shadow  upon  her  all  the  rest 
of  the  night.  She  did  not  lay  the  child  down 
again,  but  carried  it  in  her  arms  until  they 
went  to  bed,  and  even  there  it  lay  upon  her 
breast. 

"  It's  queer  to  me  as  yo'  should  be  so  fond  o" 
that  choild,  Joan,"  said  Liz,  standing  by  the  side 
of  the  bed. 

Joan  raised  her  head  from  the  pillow  and  looked 
down  at  the  small  face  resting  upon  her  bosom, 
and  she  touched  the  baby's  cheek  lightly  with  her 
finger,  flushing  curiously. 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S        115 

"  It's  queer  to  me  too,"  she  answered.  "  Get 
thee  into  bed,  Liz." 

Many  a  battle  was  fought  upon  that  homely 
couch  when  Liz  was  slumbering  quietly,  and  the 
child's  soft  regular  breathing  was  the  only  sound 
to  be  heard  in  the  darkened  room.  Amid  the 
sordid  cares  and  humiliations  of  Joan's  rough  life, 
there  had  arisen  new  ones.  She  had  secret  strug 
gles — secret  yearnings, — and  added  to  these,  a 
secret  terror.  When  she  lay  awake  thinking,  she 
was  listening  for  her  father's  step.  There  was 
not  a  night  in  which  she  did  not  long  for,  and 
dread  to  hear  it.  If  he  stayed  out  all  night,  she 
went  down  to  her  work  under  a  load  of  forebod 
ing.  She  feared  to  look  into  the  faces  of  her 
work-fellows,  lest  they  should  have  some  evil 
story  to  tell,  she  feared  the  road  over  which  she 
had  to  pass,  lest  at  some  point,  its  very  dust 
should  cry  out  to  her  in  a  dark  stain.  She  knew 
her  father  better  than  the  oldest  of  his  com 
panions,  and  she  watched  him  closely. 

"  He's  what  yo5  wenches  ud  ca'  a  handsum 
chap,  that  theer,"  said  Lowrie  to  her,  the  night  of 
his  encounter  with  Derrick.  "  He's  a  tall  chap  an* 
a  strappin'  chap  an'  he's  getten  a  good-lookin' 
mug  o'  his  own,  but,"  clenching  his  fist  slowly  and 
speaking,  "  I've  not  done  wi'  him  yet — I  has  not 
quite  done  wi'  him.  Wait  till  I  ha',  an'  then  see 
what  yo'll  say  about  his  beauty.  Look  yo'  here, 


ii6       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

lass," — more  slowly  and  heavily  still, — "  he'll  noan 
be  so  tall  then  nor  yet  so  straight  an'  strappin'. 
I'll  smash  his  good-lookin'  mug  if  I'm  dom'd  to 
hell  fur  it.  Heed  tha  that  ?  " 

Instead  of  taking  lodgings  nearer  the  town  or 
avoiding  the  Knoll  Road,  as  Grace  advised  him 
to  do  when  he  heard  of  Joan's  warning,  Derrick 
provided  himself  with  a  heavy  stick,  stuck  a  pistol 
into  his  belt  every  night  when  he  left  his  office, 
and  walked  home  as  usual,  keeping  a  sharp  look 
out,  however. 

"  If  I  avoid  the  fellow,"  he  said  to  Grace,  "  he 
will  suspect  at  once  that  I  feel  I  have  cause  to 
fear  him  ;  and  if  I  give  him  grounds  for  such  a 
belief  as  that  I  might  as  well  have  given  way  at 
first." 

Strange  to  say  he  was  not  molested.  The  ex- 
citement  seemed  to  die  a  natural  death  in  the 
course  of  a  few  days.  Lowrie  came  back  to  his 
work  looking  sullen  and  hard,  but  he  made  no  open 
threats,  and  he  even  seemed  easier  to  manage. 
Certainly  Derrick  found  his  companions  more 
respectful  and  submissive.  There  was  less  grum 
bling  among  them  and  more  passive  obedience. 
The  rules  were  not  broken,  openly,  at  least,  and 
he  himself  was  not  defied.  It  was  not  pleasant  to 
feel  that  what  reason  and  civility  could  not  do,  a 
tussle  had  accomplished,  but  this  really  seemed 
to  be  the  truth  of  the  matter,  and  the  result  was 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S        117 

one  which  made  his  responsibilities  easier  to 
bear. 

But  during  his  lonely  walks  homeward  on 
these  summer  nights,  Derrick  made  a  curious  dis 
covery.  On  one  or  two  occasions  he  became 
conscious  that  he  had  a  companion  who  seemed 
to  act  as  his  escort.  It  was  usually  upon  dark  or 
unpleasant  nights  that  he  observed  this,  and  the 
first  time  he  caught  sight  of  the  figure  which 
always  walked  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  road, 
either  some  distance  before  or  behind  him,  he  put 
his  hand  to  his  belt,  not  perceiving  for  some  mo 
ments  that  it  was  not  a  man  but  a  woman.  It  was 
a  woman's  figure,  and  the  knowledge  sent  the 
blood  to  his  heart  with  a  rush  that  quickened  its 
beatings.  It  might  have  been  chance,  he  argued, 
that  took  her  home  that  night  at  this  particular 
time ;  but  when  time  after  time,  the  same  thing 
occurred,  he  saw  that  his  argument  had  lost  its 
plausibility.  It  was  no  accident,  there  was  pur 
pose  in  it ;  and  though  they  never  spoke  to  each 
other  or  in  any  manner  acknowledged  each  other's 
presence,  and  though  often  he  fancied  that  she 
convinced  herself  that  he  was  not  aware  of  her 
motive,  he  knew  that  Joan's  desire  to  protect 
him  had  brought  her  there. 

He  did  not  speak  of  this  even  to  Grace. 

One  afternoon  in  making  her  visit  at  the  cot 
tage,  Anice  left  a  message  for  Joan.  She  had 


ii8       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

brought  a  little  plant-pot  holding  a  tiny  rose-bush 
in  full  bloom,  and  when  she  went  away  she  left 
her  message  with  Liz. 

"  I  never  see  your  friend  when  I  am  here,"  she 
said,  "  will  you  ask  her  to  come  and  see  me  some 
night  when  she  is  not  too  tired?" 

When  Joan  came  home  from  her  work,  the  first 
thing  that  caught  her  eye  was  a  lovely  bit  of 
color, — the  little  rose-bush  blooming  on  the  win 
dow-sill  where  Anice  herself  had  placed  it. 

She  went  and  stood  before  it,  and  when  Liz, 
who  had  been  temporarily  absent,  came  into  the 
room,  she  was  standing  before  it  still. 

"  She  browt  it,"  explained  Liz,  "  she  wur  here 
this  afternoon." 

"  Aye,"  she  answered,  "  wur  she  ?  " 

"  Aye,"  said  Liz.  "  An',  Joan,  what  do  yo' 
think  she  towd  me  to  tell  yo'  ?  " 

Joan  shook  her  head. 

"  Why,  she  said  I  were  to  tell  yo'  to  go  and  see 
her  some  neet  when  yo'  wur  na  tired, — just  th' 
same  as  if  yo'  wur  a  lady.  Shanna  yo'  go  ?  " 

"  I  dunnot  know,"  said  Joan  awakening,  "  I 
canna  tell.  What  does  she  want  o'  me  ?  " 

"  She  wants  to  see  thee  an'  talk  to  thee,  that's 
what," — answered  Liz, — "  just  th'  same  as  if  tha 
was  a  lady,  I  tell  thee.  That's  her  way  o'  doin* 
things.  She  is  na  a  bit  loike  the  rest  o'  gentle 
folk.  Why,  she'll  sit  theer  on  that  three-legged 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S        119 

stool  wi'  the  choild  on  her  knee  an'  laff  an*  talk  to 
me  an*  it,  as  if  she  wur  nowt  but  a  common  lass 
an'  noan  a  lady  at  aw.  She's  ta'en  a  great  fancy 
to  thee,  Joan.  She's  allus  axin  me  about  thee.  If 
I  wur  thee  I'd  go.  Happen  she'd  gi'  thee  some 
o'  her  owd  cloas  as  she's  ta'en  to  thee  so." 

"  I  dunnot  want  no  owd  cloas,"  said  Joan 
brusquely,*"  an'  she's  noan  so  daft  as  to  offer  'em 
to  me." 

"  Well,  I  nivver  did ! "  exclaimed  Liz.  "  Would 
na  tha  tak'  'em  ?  Tha  nivver  means  to  say,  tha 
would  na  tak'  'em,  Joan  ?  Eh  !  tha  art  a  queer 
wench  !  Why,  I'd  be  set  up  for  th'  rest  o'  my 
days,  if  she'd  offer  'em  to  me." 

"  Thy  ways  an'  mine  is  na  loike,"  said  Joan. 
"  I  want  no  gentlefolks'  finery.  An'  I  tell  you  she 
would  na  offer  'em  to  me." 

"  I  nivver  con  mak'  thee  out,"  Liz  said,  in  a 
fret.  "  Tha'rt  as  grand  as  if  tha  wur  a  lady  thy- 
sen.  Tha'lt  tak'  nowt  fro'  nobody." 

"  Wheer's  th'  choild  ?"  asked  Joan. 

"  She's  laid  on  th'  bed,"  said  Liz.  "  She  wur  so 
heavy  she  tired  me  an'  I  gave  her  a  rose-bud  to 
play  wi'  an'  left  her.  She  has  na  cried  sin'.  Eh  ! 
but  these  is  a  noice  color,"  bending  her  pretty, 
large-eyed  face  over  the  flowers,  and  inhaling 
their  perfume ;  "  I  wish  I  had  a  bit  o'  ribbon 
loike  'em." 


CHAPTER  XIII 
Joan  and  the  Picture 

NOTWITHSTANDING  Anice's  interference  in  his 
behalf,  Paul  did  not  find  his  labors  become  very 
much  lighter.  And  then  after  all  his  labor,  the 
prospect  before  him  was  not  promising.  Instead 
of  appearing  easier  to  cope  with  as  he  learned 
more  of  it  and  its  inhabitants,  Riggan  seemed  still 
more  baffling.  His  "district"  lay  in  the  lower 
end  of  the  town  among  ugly  back  streets,  and  al, 
leys;  among  dirt  and  ignorance  and  obstinacy. 
He  spent  his  days  in  laboring  among  people  upon 
whom  he  sometimes  fancied  he  had  obtained  no 
hold.  It  really  seemed  that  they  did  not  want 
him — these  people  ;  and  occasionally  a  more  dis 
tressing  view  of  the  case  presented  itself  to  his 
troubled  mind, — namely,  that  to  those  who  might 
chance  to  want  him  he  had  little  to  offer. 

He  had  his  temporal  thorn  too.  He  found  it 
difficult  to  read,  hard  to  fix  his  mind  on  his  mod. 
est  sermons ;  occasionally  he  even  accused  him 
self  of  forgetting  his  duty.  This  had  come  since 
the  night  when  he  stood  at  the  door  and  listened 
to  his  friend's  warning  concerning  the  Rector's 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S        121 

daughter.  Derrick's  words  were  simple  enough 
in  themselves,  but  they  had  fallen  upon  the  young 
Curate's  ears  with  startling  significance.  He  had 
given  this  significance  to  them  himself, — in  spite 
of  himself, — and  then  all  at  once  he  had  fallen  to 
wondering  why  it  was  that  he  had  never  thought 
of  such  a  possible  denouement  before.  It  was  so 
very  possible,  so  very  probable ;  nay,  when  he 
came  to  think  of  it  seriously,  it  was  only  impossi 
ble  that  it  should  not  be.  He  had  often  told  him 
self,  that  some  day  a  lover  would  come  who  would 
be  worthy  of  the  woman  he  had  not  even  hoped 
to  win.  And  who  was  more  worthy  than  Fergus 
Derrick — who  was  more  like  the  hero  to  whom 
such  women  surrender  their  hearts  and  lives.  If 
he  himself  had  been  such  a  man,  he  thought  with 
the  simplicity  of  affection,  he  would  not  have  felt 
that  there  was  need  for  fear.  And  the  two  had 
been  thrown  so  much  together  and  would  be 
thrown  together  so  frequently  in  the  future.  He 
remembered  how  Fergus  had  been  taken  into  the 
family  circle,  and  calling  to  mind  a  hundred  tri 
fling  incidents,  smiled  at  his  own  blindness. 
When  the  next  day  he  received  Anice's  message, 
he  received  it  as  an  almost  positive  confirmation. 
It  was  not  like  her  to  bestow  favors  from  an  idle 
impulse. 

It  was  not  so  easy  now  to  meet  the  girl  in  his 
visits  to  the  Rectory  :  it  was  not  easy  to  listen  to 


122       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

Mr.  Barholm  while  Anice  and  Fergus  Derrick  sat 
apart  and  talked.  Sometimes  he  wondered  if  the 
time  could  ever  come,  when  his  friend  would  be 
less  his  friend  because  he  had  rivalled  him.  The 
idea  of  such  a  possibility  only  brought  him  fresh 
pain.  His  gentle  chivalric  nature  shrank  within 
itself  at  the  thought  of  the  bereavement  that 
double  loss  would  be.  There  was  little  room  in 
his  mind  for  the  envies  of  stronger  men.  Cer 
tainly  Fergus  had  no  suspicion  of  the  existence  of 
his  secret  pain.  He  found  no  alteration  in  his 
gentle  friend. 

Among  the  Reverend  Paul's  private  ventures 
was  a  small  night  school  which  he  had  managed 
to  establish  by  slow  degrees.  He  had  picked  up 
a  reluctant  scholar  here,  and  one  there, — two  or 
three  pit  lads,  two  or  three  girls,  and  two  or 
three  men  for  whose  attendance  he  had  worked 
so  hard  and  waited  so  long  that  he  was  quite 
surprised  at  his  success  in  the  end.  He  scarcely 
knew  how  he  had  managed  it,  but  the  pupils 
were  there  in  the  dingy  room  of  the  National 
School,  waiting  for  him  on  two  nights  in  the 
week,  upon  which  nights  he  gave  them  instruc 
tion  on  a  plan  of  his  own.  He  had  thought  the 
matter  so  little  likely  to  succeed  at  first,  that  he 
had  engaged  in  it  as  a  private  work,  and  did 
not  even  mention  it  until  his  friends  discovered 
it  by  chance. 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S        123 

Said  Jud  Bates  to  Miss  Barholm,  during  one 
of  their  confidential  interviews : 

"  Did  tha  ivver  go  to  a  neet  skoo  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Anice. 

Jud  fondled  Nib's  ears  patronizingly. 

"  I  ha',  an'  I'm  goin'  again.  So  is  Nib.  His 
getten  one." 

"  Who  ?  "  for  Jud  had  signified  by  a  gesture 
that  he  was  not  the  dog,  but  some  indefinite  per 
son  in  the  village. 

"  Th'  little  Parson." 

"  Say,  Mr.  Grace,"  suggested  Anice.  "  It 
sounds  better." 

"  Aye — Mester  Grace — but  ivverybody  ca's 
him  th'  little  Parson.  He's  getten  a  neet  skoo  i' 
th'  town,  an'  he  axed  me  to  go,  an'  I  went.  I  took 
Nib  an'  we  larned  our  letters ;  leastways  I  larned 
mine,  an'  Nib  he  listened  wi'  his  ears  up,  an*  th' 
Par — Mester  Grace  laffed.  He  wur  na  vext  at 
Nib  comin'.  He  said  '  let  him  coom,  as  he  wur  so 
owd-fashioned.'  " 

So  Mr.  Grace  found  himself  informed  upon, 
and  was  rather  abashed  at  being  confronted  with 
his  enterprise  a  few  days  after  by  Miss  Barholm. 

"  I  like  it,"  said  Anice.  "  Joan  Lowrie  learned 
to  read  and  write  in  a  night  school.  Mr.  Derrick 
told  me  so." 

A  new  idea  seemed  to  have  been  suggested  to 
her. 


124       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

"  Mr.  Grace,"  she  said,  "  why  could  not  7  help 
you?  Might  I?" 

His  delight  revealed  itself  in  his  face.  His  first 
thought  was  a  selfish,  unclerical  one,  and  sudden 
consciousness  sent  the  color  to  his  forehead  as  he 
answered  her,  though  he  spoke  quite  calmly. 

"There  is  no  reason  why  you  should  not — if 
you  choose,"  he  said,  "  unless  Mr.  Barholm  should 
object.  I  need  not  tell  you  how  grateful  I  should 
be." 

"  Papa  will  not  object,"  she  said,  quietly. 

The  next  time  the  pupils  met,  she  presented 
herself  in  the  school-room. 

Ten  minutes  after  Grace  had  given  her  work 
to  her  she  was  as  much  at  home  with  it  as  if  she 
had  been  there  from  the  first. 

"  Hoo's  a  little  un,"  said  one  of  the  boys,  "  but 
hoo  does  na  seem  to  be  easy  feart.  Hoo  does 
not  look  a  bit  tuk  back." 

She  had  never  been  so  near  to  Paul  Grace  dur. 
ing  their  friendship  as  when  she  walked  home 
with  him.  A  stronger  respect  for  him  was  grow 
ing  in  her, — a  new  reverence  for  his  faithfulness. 
She  had  always  liked  and  trusted  him,  but  of  late 
she  had  learned  to  do  more.  She  recognized 
more  fully  the  purity  and  singleness  of  his  life. 
She  accused  herself  of  having  underrated  him. 

"  Please  let  me  help  you  when  I  can,  Mr.  Grace," 
she  said ;  "  I  am  not  blaming  anybody — there  is 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S       125 

no  real  blame,  even  if  I  had  the  right  to  attach 
it  to  any  one ;  but  there  are  mistakes  now  and 
then,  and  you  must  promise  me  that  I  may  use 
my  influence  to  prevent  them." 

She  had  stopped  at  the  gate  to  say  this,  and 
she  held  out  her  hand.  It  was  a  strange  thing 
that  she  could  be  so  utterly  oblivious  of  the  pain 
she  inflicted.  But  even  Derrick  would  have 
taken  her  hand  with  less  self-control.  He  was  so 
fearful  of  wounding  or  disturbing  her,  that  he 
was  continually  on  his  guard  in  her  presence,  and 
especially  when  she  was  thus  warm  and  un 
guarded  herself. 

He  had  fancied  before,  sometimes,  that  she  had 
seen  his  difficulties,  and  sympathized  with  him, 
but  he  had  never  hoped  that  she  would  be  thus 
unreserved.  His  thanks  came  from  the  depths  of 
his  heart ;  he  felt  that  she  had  lightened  his 
burden. 

After  this,  Miss  Barholm  was  rarely  absent  from 
her  place  at  the  school.  The  two  evenings  al 
ways  found  her  at  work  among  her  young  women, 
and  she  made  very  steady  progress  among  them. 

By  degrees  the  enterprise  was  patronized  more 
freely.  New  pupils  dropped  in,  and  were  usually 
so  well  satisfied  that  they  did  not  drop  out  again. 
Grace  gave  all  the  credit  to  Anice,  but  Anice 
knew  better  than  to  accept  it.  She  had  been 
his  "  novelty"  she  said  ;  time  only  would  prove 


126       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

whether  her  usefulness  was  equal  to  her  power  of 
attraction. 

She  had  been  teaching  in  the  school  about  three 
weeks,  when  a  servant  came  to  her  one  night  as 
she  sat  reading,  with  the  information  that  a  young 
woman  wished  to  see  her. 

"  A  fine-looking  young  woman,  Miss,"  added 
the  girl.  "  I  put  her  into  your  own  room,  as  you 
give  orders." 

The  room  was  a  quiet  place,  away  from  the 
sounds  of  the  house,  which  had  gradually  come 
to  be  regarded  as  Miss  Barholm's.  It  was  not  a 
large  room  but  it  was  a  pretty  one,  with  wide 
windows  and  a  good  view,  and  as  Anice  liked  it, 
her  possessions  drifted  into  it  until  they  filled  it, 
— her  books,  her  pictures, — and  as  she  spent  a 
good  deal  of  her  time  there,  it  was  invariably 
spoken  of  as  her  room,  and  she  had  given  orders 
to  the  servants  that  her  village  visitors  should  be 
taken  to  it  when  they  came. 

Carrying  her  book  in  her  hand,  she  went  up 
stairs.  She  had  been  very  much  interested  in 
what  she  was  reading,  and  had  hardly  time  to 
change  the  channel  of  her  thought.  But  when 
she  opened  the  door,  she  was  brought  back  to 
earth  at  once. 

Against  the  end  wall  was  suspended  a  picture 
of  Christ  in  the  last  agony,  and  beneath  it  was 
written,  "  It  is  finished."  Before  it,  as  Anice 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S        127 

cpened  the  door,  stood  Joan  Lowrie,  with  Liz's 
sleeping  child  on  her  bosom.  She  had  come  upon 
the  picture  suddenly,  and  it  had  seized  on  some 
deep,  reluctant  emotion.  She  had  heard  some 
vague  history  of  the  Man ;  but  it  was  different 
to  find  herself  in  this  silent  room,  confronting 
the  upturned  face,  the  crown,  the  cross,  the  an- 
guish  and  the  mystery.  She  turned  toward 
Anice,  forgetting  all  else  but  her  emotion.  She 
even  looked  at  her  for  a  few  seconds  in  question 
ing  silence,  as  if  waiting  for  an  answer  to  words 
she  had  not  spoken. 

When  she  found  her  voice,  it  was  of  the  pict 
ure  she  spoke,  not  of  the  real  object  of  her  visit. 

"Tha  knows,"  she  said,  "  I  dunnot,  though  I've 
heerd  on  it  afore.  What  is  it  as  is  finished  ?  I 
dunnot  quite  see.  What  is  it?" 

"  It  means,"  said  Anice,  "  that  God's  Son  has 
finished  his  work." 

Joan  did  not  speak. 

"  I  have  no  words  of  my  own,  to  explain,"  con 
tinued  Anice.  "  I  can  tell  you  better  in  the  words 
of  the  men  who  loved  him  and  saw  him  die." 

Joan  turned  to  her. 

"  Saw  him  dee ! "  she  repeated. 

"  There  were  men  who  saw  him  when  he  died 
you  know,"  said  Anice.  "  The  New  Testament 
tells  us  how.  It  is  as  real  as  the  picture,  I  think. 
Did  you  never  read  it?" 


128       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

The  girl's  face  took  an  expression  of  distrust 
and  sullenness. 

"  Th'  Bible  has  na  been  i'  my  line,"  she  an- 
swered  ;  "  I've  left  that  to  th'  parsons  an'  th' 
loike ;  but  th'  pictur'  tuk  my  eye.  It  seemt  dif 
ferent." 

"  Let  us  sit  down,"  said  Anice,  "  you  will  be 
tired  of  standing." 

When  they  sat  down,  Anice  began  to  talk  about 
the  child,  who  was  sleeping,  lowering  her  voice 
for  fear  of  disturbing  it.  Joan  regarded  the  little 
thing  with  a  look  of  half-subdued  pride. 

"  I  browt  it  because  I  knowed  it  ud  be  easier 
wi'  me  than  wi'  Liz,"  she  said.  "  It  worrits  Liz 
an'  it  neer  worrits  me.  I'm  so  strong,  yo'  see,  I 
con  carry  it,  an'  scarce  feel  its  weight,  but  it 
wears  Liz  out,  an'  it  seems  to  me  as  it  knows  it 
too,  fur  th'  minute  she  begins  to  fret  it  frets  too." 

There  was  a  certain  shamefacedness  in  her  man 
ner,  when  at  last  she  began  to  explain  the  object 
of  her  errand.  Anice  could  not  help  fancying 
that  she  was  impelled  on  her  course  by  some  mo 
tive  whose  influence  she  reluctantly  submitted  to. 
She  had  come  to  speak  about  the  night  school. 

"  Theer  wur  a  neet  skoo  here  once  afore  as  I 
went  to,"  she  said  ;  "  I  larnt  to  reed  theer  an'  write 
a  bit,  but — but  theer's  other  things  I'd  loike  to 
know.  Tha  canst  understand,"  she  added  a  little 
abruptly,  "  I  need  na  tell  yo'.  Little  Jud  Bates 


THAT  LASS  O'   LOWRIE'S       129 

said  as  yo'  had  a  class  o'  yore  own,  an*  it  come 
into  ray  moind  as  I  would  ax  yo'  about  it  If  I  go 
to  th'  skoo  I — I'd  loike  to  be  wi'  yo'." 

"  You  can  come  to  me,"  said  Anice.  "  And 
do  you  know,  I  think  you  can  help  me."  This 
thought  had  occurred  to  her  suddenly.  "  I  am 
sure  you  can  help  me,"  she  repeated. 

When  Joan  at  last  started  to  go  away,  she 
paused  before  the  picture,  hesitating  for  a  mo 
ment,  and  then  she  turned  to  Anice  again. 

"  Yo'  say  as  th'  book  maks  it  seem  real  as  th' 
pictur,"  she  said. 

"  It  seems  so  to  me,"  Anice  answered. 

"  Will  yo'  lend  me  th'  book  ? "  she  asked  ab 
ruptly. 

Anice's  own  Bible  lay  upon  a  side-table.  She 
took  it  up  and  handed  it  to  the  girl,  saying 
simply, 

"  I  will  give  you  this  one  if  you  will  take  it. 
It  was  mine,'* 

And  Joan  carried  the  book  away  with  her. 
9 


CHAPTER  XIV 

The  Open  "Davy" 

MESTER  DERIK 

Th'  rools  is  ben  broak  agen  on  th'  quiet  bi  them  as  broak  em 
afore,  i  naim  no  naimes  an  wudnt  say  nowt  but  our  loifes  is  in 
danger  And  more  than  one,  i  Only  ax  yo'  tu  Wach  out.  i  am 
Respekfully  A  honest  man  wi  a  famly  tu  fede 

THE  engineer  found  this  letter  near  his  plate 
one  morning  on  coming  down  to  breakfast.  His 
landlady  explained  that  her  daughter  had  picked 
it  up  inside  the  garden  gate,  where  it  had  been 
thrown  upon  the  gravel-walk,  evidently  from  the 
road. 

Derrick  read  it  twice  or  three  times  before  put 
ting  it  in  his  pocket.  Upon  the  whole,  he  was 
not  unprepared  for  the  intelligence.  He  knew 
enough  of  human  nature — such  human  nature  as 
Lowrie  represented — to  feel  sure  that  the  calm 
could  not  continue.  If  for  the  present  the  man 
did  not  defy  him  openly,  he  would  disobey  him 
in  secret,  while  biding  his  time  for  other  means 
of  retaliation. 

Derrick  had  been  on  the  lookout  for  some  effort 
at  revenge ;  but  so  far  since  the  night  Joan  had 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S        131 

met  him  upon  the  road,  Lowrie  outwardly  had 
been  perfectly  quiet  and  submissive. 

After  reading  the  letter,  Derrick  made  up  his 
mind  to  prompt  and  decisive  measures,  and  set 
about  considering  what  these  measures  should  be. 
There  was  only  one  certain  means  of  redress  and 
safety, — Lowrie  must  be  got  rid  of  at  once.  It 
would  not  be  a  difficult  matter  either.  There  was 
to  be  a  meeting  of  the  owners  that  very  week, 
and  Derrick  had  reports  to  make,  and  the  mere 
mention  of  the  violation  of  the  rules  would  be 
enough. 

"  Bah !  "  he  said  aloud.  "  It  is  not  pleasant ; 
but  it  must  be  done." 

The  affair  had  several  aspects,  rendering  it  un 
pleasant,  but  Derrick  shut  his  eyes  to  them  reso 
lutely.  It  seemed,  too,  that  it  was  not  destined 
that  he  should  have  reason  to  remain  undecided. 
That  very  day  he  was  confronted  with  positive 
proof  that  the  writer  of  the  anonymous  warning 
was  an  honest  man,  with  an  honest  motive. 

During  the  morning,  necessity  called  him  away 
from  his  men  to  a  side  gallery,  and  entering  this 
gallery,  he  found  himself  behind  a  man  who  stood 
at  one  side  close  to  the  wall,  his  Davy  lamp  open, 
his  pipe  applied  to  the  flame.  It  was  Dan  Low 
rie,  and  his  stealthy  glance  over  his  shoulder  re 
vealing  to  him  that  he  was  discovered,  he  turned 
with  an  oath. 


132        THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

"  Shut  that  lamp,"  said  Derrick,  "  and  give  me 
your  false  key." 

Lowrie  hesitated. 

"Give  me  that  key,"  Derrick  repeated,  "or  I 
will  call  the  gang  in  the  next  gallery  and  see  what 
they  have  to  say  about  the  matter." 

"  Dom  yore  eyes !  does  tha  think  as  my 
toime  '11  nivver  coom  ?  " 

But  he  gave  up  the  key. 

"  When  it  comes,"  he  said,  "  I  hope  I  shall  be 
ready  to  help  myself.  Now  I've  got  only  one 
thing  to  do.  I  gave  you  fair  warning  and  asked 
you  to  act  the  man  toward  your  fellows.  You 
have  played  the  scoundrel  instead,  and  I  have 
done  with  you.  I  shall  report  you.  That's  the 
end  of  it." 

He  went  on  his  way,  and  left  the  man  uttering 
curses  under  his  breath.  If  there  had  not  been 
workers  near  at  hand,  Derrick  might  not  have 
gotten  away  so  easily.  Among  the  men  in  the 
next  gallery  there  were  some  who  were  no 
friends  to  Lowrie,  and  who  would  have  given 
him  rough  handling  if  they  had  caught  him  just 
at  that  moment,  and  the  fellow  knew  it. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  week,  the  owners  came, 
and  Derrick  made  his  report.  The  result  was 
just  what  he  had  known  it  would  be.  Explosions 
had  been  caused  before  by  transgressions  of  the 
rules,  and  explosions  were  expensive  and  dis- 


THAT   LASS   O>   LOWRIE'S        133 

astrous  affairs.  Lowrie  received  his  discharge, 
and  his  fellow-workmen  a  severe  warning,  to  the 
secret  consternation  of  some  among  them. 

That  the  engineer  of  the  new  mines  was  a  zeal 
ous  and  really  amiable  young  man,  if  rather 
prone  to  innovations,  became  evident  to  his  em 
ployers.  But  his  innovations  were  not  encour 
aged.  So,  notwithstanding  his  arguments,  the 
blast-furnaces  held  their  own,  and  "  for  the  pres 
ent,"  as  the  easy-natured  manager  put  it,  other 
matters,  even  more  important,  were  set  aside. 

"  There  is  much  to  be  done,  Derrick,"  he  said ; 
"really  so  much  that  requires  time  and  money, 
that  we  must  wait  a  little.  '  Rome,  etc.' " 

"  Ah,  Rome !  "  returned  Derrick.  "  I  am  some 
times  of  the  opinion  that  Rome  had  better  never 
been  built  at  all.  You  will  not  discharge  your 
imperfect  apparatus  for  the  same  reason  that  you 
will  discharge  a  collier, — which  is  hardly  fair  to 
the  collier.  Your  blast-furnaces  expose  the  min 
ers  to  as  great  danger  as  Lowrie's  pipe.  The 
presence  of  either  may  bring  about  an  explosion 
when  it  is  least  expected." 

"Well,  well,"  was  the  good-natured  response; 
"  we  have  not  exploded  yet ;  and  we  have  done 
away  with  Lowrie's  pipe." 

Derrick  carried  the  history  of  his  ill-success  to 
Anice,  somewhat  dejectedly. 

"  All  this  is  discouraging  to  a  man,"  said  Der- 


134       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

rick,  and  then  he  added  meditatively,  "  As  to  the 
rest,  I  wonder  what  Joan  Lowrie  will  think  of  it." 

A  faint  sense  of  discomfort  fell  upon  Anice — 
not  exactly  easy  to  understand.  The  color  flut 
tered  to  her  cheek  and  her  smile  died  away.  But 
she  did  not  speak, — merely  waited  to  hear  what 
Derrick  had  to  say. 

He  had  nothing  more  to  say  about  Joan 
Lowrie : — when  he  recovered  himself,  as  he  did 
almost  immediately,  he  went  back  to  the  discus 
sion  of  his  pet  plans,  and  was  very  eloquent  on 
the  subject. 

Going  home  one  evening,  Derrick  found  him 
self  at  a  turn  of  the  road  only  a  few  paces  behind 
Joan.  He  had  thought  much  of  her  of  late,  and 
wondered  whether  she  was  able  to  take  an  utterly 
unselfish  view  of  his  action.  She  had  a  basket 
upon  her  arm  and  looked  tired.  He  strode  up  to 
her  side  and  spoke  to  her  without  ceremony. 

"  Let  me  carry  that,"  he  said.  "  It  is  too  heavy 
for  you." 

The  sun  was  setting  redly,  so  perhaps  it  was 
the  sunset  that  flung  its  color  upon  her  face  as 
she  turned  to  look  at  him. 

"  Thank  yo',"  she  answered.  "  I'm  used  to  car- 
ryin*  such-loike  loads." 

But  he  took  her  burden  from  her,  and  even  if 
she  had  wished  to  be  left  to  herself  she  had  no 
redress,  and  accordingly  submitted.  Influences 


THAT   LASS  O'   LOWRIE'S        135 

long  at  work  upon  her  had  rendered  her  less  defi 
ant  than  she  had  been  in  the  past.  There  was  an 
element  of  quiet  in  her  expression,  such  as  Der 
rick  had  not  seen  when  her  beauty  first  caught 
his  attention. 

They  walked  together  silently  for  a  while. 

"  I  should  like  to  hear  you  say  that  you  do  not 
blame  me,"  said  Derrick,  at  last,  abruptly. 

She  knew  what  he  meant,  it  was  evident. 

"  I  conna  blame  yo'  fur  doin*  what  were  reet,** 
she  answered. 

"  Right, — you  thought  it  right  ?  " 

"  Why  should  na  I  ?  Yo'  couldna  ha*  done  no 
other." 

"  Thank  you  for  saying  that,"  he  returned.  "  I 
have  thought  once  or  twice  that  you  might  have 
blamed  me." 

"  I  did  na  know/*  was  her  answer.  "  I  did  na 
know  as  I  had  done  owt  to  mak*  yo'  think  so  ill 
of  me." 

He  did  not  find  further  comment  easy.  He 
felt,  as  he  had  felt  before,  that  Joan  had  placed 
him  at  a  disadvantage.  He  so  often  made  irritat 
ing  mistakes  in  his  efforts  to  read  her,  and  in  the 
end  he  seldom  found  that  he  had  made  any  ad 
vance.  Anice  Barholm,  with  her  problems  and 
her  moods,  was  far  less  difficult  to  comprehend 
than  Joan  Lowrie. 

Liz  was  at  the  cottage  door  when  they  parted, 


136       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

and  Liz's  eyes  had  curiosity  and  wonder  in  them 
when  she  met  her  friend. 

"  Joan,"  she  said,  peering  over  the  door-sill  at 
Derrick's  retreating  figure,  "  is  na  that  one  o'  th' 
mesters?  Is  na  it  the  Lunnon  engineer,  Joan?" 

"  Yes,"  Joan  answered  briefly. 

The  pretty,  silly  creature's  eyes  grew  larger, 
with  a  shade  of  awe. 

"  Is  na  it  th'  one  as  yore  feyther's  so  bitter 
agen?" 

"  Yes." 

"  An'  is  na  he  a  gentleman  ?  He  dunnot  look 
loike  a  workin'  mon.  His  cloas  dunnot  fit  him 
loike  common  foakes.  He  mun  be  a  gentleman." 

"  I've  heerd  foak  ca*  him  one ;  an'  if  his  cloas 
fit  him  reet,  he  mun  be  one,  I  suppose." 

Liz  looked  after  him  again. 

"Aye,"  she  sighed,  "he's  a  gentleman  sure 
enow.  I've  seed  gentlemen  enow  to  know  th' 

look  on  'em.  Did "  hesitating  fearfully,  but 

letting  her  curiosity  get  the  better  of  her  discre 
tion  nevertheless, — "  did  he  court  thee,  Joan  ?  " 

The  next  moment  she  was  frightened  into 
wishing  she  had  not  asked  the  question.  Joan 
turned  round  and  faced  her  suddenly,  pale  and 
wrathful. 

"  Nay,  he  did  na,"  she  said.  "  I  am  na  a  lady, 
an'  he  is  what  tha  ca's  him — a  gentleman." 


CHAPTER  XV 
A  Discovery 

THE  first  time  that  Joan  appeared  at  the  night 
school,  the  men  and  girls  looked  up  from  their 
tasks  to  stare  at  her,  and  whisper  among  them 
selves  ;  but  she  was,  to  all  appearances,  oblivious 
of  their  scrutiny,  and  the  flurry  of  curiosity  and 
excitement  soon  died  out.  After  the  first  visit 
her  place  was  never  vacant.  On  the  nights  ap 
pointed  for  the  classes  to  meet,  she  came,  did  the 
work  allotted  to  her,  and  went  her  way  again, 
pretty  much  as  she  did  at  the  mines.  When  in 
due  time  Anice  began  to  work  out  her  plan  of 
co-operation  with  her,  she  was  not  disappointed 
in  the  fulfilment  of  her  hopes.  Gradually  it  be 
came  a  natural  thing  for  a  slow  and  timid  girl  to 
turn  to  Joan  Lowrie  for  help. 

As  for  Joan's  own  progress,  it  was  not  long  be 
fore  Miss  Barholm  began  to  regard  the  girl  with 
a  new  wonder.  She  was  absolutely  amazed  to 
find  out  how  much  she  was  learning,  and  how 
much  she  had  learned,  working  on  silently  and 
by  herself.  She  applied  herself  to  her  tasks  with 


138       THAT  LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

a  determination  which  seemed  at  times  almost 
feverish. 

"  I  mun  learn,"  she  said  to  Anice  once.  "  I 
will"  and  she  closed  her  hand  with  a  sudden  ner 
vous  strength. 

Then  again  there  were  times  when  her  courage 
seemed  to  fail  her,  though  she  never  slackened 
her  efforts. 

"  Dost  tha  think,"  she  said,  "  dost  tha  think  as  I 
could  ivver  learn  as  much  as  tha  knows  thysen  ? 
Does  tha  think  a  workin'  lass  ivver  did  learn  as 
much  as  a  lady  ?  " 

"  I  think,"  said  Anice,  "  that  you  can  do  any 
thing  you  try  to  do." 

By  very  slow  degrees  she  had  arrived  at  a  dis 
covery  which  a  less  close  observer  might  have 
missed  altogether,  or  at  least  only  arrived  at 
much  later  in  the  day  of  experience.  Anice's 
thoughts  were  moved  in  this  direction  the  night 
that  Derrick  slipped  into  that  half  soliloquy  about 
Joan.  She  might  well  be  startled.  This  man 
and  woman  could  scarcely  have  been  placed  at  a 
greater  distance  from  each  other,  and  yet  those 
half  dozen  words  of  Fergus  Derrick's  had  sug 
gested  to  his  hearer  that  each,  through  some  un 
defined  attraction,  was  veering  toward  the  other. 
Neither  might  be  aware  of  this  ;  but  it  was  surely 
true.  Little  as  social  creeds  influenced  Anice, 
she  could  not  close  her  eyes  to  the  incongruous — 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S        139 

the  unpleasant  features  of  this  strange  situation. 
And,  besides,  there  was  a  more  intimate  and  per 
sonal  consideration.  Her  own  feeling  toward 
Fergus  Derrick  was  friendship  at  first,  and  then 
she  had  suddenly  awakened  and  found  it  some 
thing  more.  That  had  startled  her,  too,  but  it 
had  not  alarmed  her  till  her  eyes  were  opened  by 
that  accidental  speech  of  Derrick's.  After  that, 
she  saw  what  both  Derrick  and  Joan  were  them 
selves  blind  to. 

Setting  her  own  pain  aside,  she  stood  apart, 
and  pitied  both.  As  for  herself,  she  was  glad 
that  she  had  made  the  discovery  before  it  was 
too  late.  She  knew  that  there  might  have  been 
a  time  when  it  would  have  been  too  late.  As  it 
was,  she  drew  back, — with  a  pang,  to  be  sure; 
but  still  she  could  draw  back. 

"  I  have  made  a  mistake,"  she  said  to  herself  in 
secret ;  but  it  did  not  occur  to  her  to  visit  the 
consequences  of  the  mistake  upon  any  other  than 
herself. 

The  bond  of  sympathy  between  herself  and 
Joan  Lowrie  only  seemed  to  increase  in  strength. 
Meeting  oftener,  they  were  knit  more  closely,  and 
drawn  into  deeper  faith  and  friendship.  With 
Joan,  emotion  was  invariably  an  undercurrent. 
She  had  trained  herself  to  a  stubborn  stoicism  so 
long,  and  with  such  determination,  that  the  habit 
of  complete  self-control  had  become  a  second  nat- 


140      THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

ure,  and  led  her  to  hold  the  world  aloof.  It  was 
with  something  of  secret  wonder  that  she  awoke 
to  the  consciousness  of  the  fact  that  she  was  not 
holding  Anice  Barholm  aloof,  and  that  there  was 
no  necessity  for  doing  so.  She  even  found  that 
she  was  being  attracted  toward  her,  and  was  sub 
mitting  to  her  influence  as  to  a  spell.  She  did 
not  understand  at  first,  and  wondered  if  it  would 
last;  but  the  nearer  she  was  drawn  to  the  girl, 
the  less  doubting  and  reluctant  she  became. 
There  was  no  occasion  for  doubt,  and  her  proud 
suspiciousness  melted  like  a  cloud  in  the  spring 
sunshine.  Having  armed  herself  against  patron 
age  and  curiosity,  she  encountered  earnest  friend 
ship  and  good  faith.  She  was  not  patronized,  she 
was  not  asked  questions,  she  was  left  to  reveal  as 
much  of  herself  as  she  chose,  and  allowed  to  re 
tain  her  own  secrets  as  if  they  were  her  own 
property.  So  she  went  and  came  to  and  from  the 
Rectory;  and  from  spending  a  few  minutes  in 
Anice's  room,  at  last  fell  into  the  habit  of  spend 
ing  hours  there.  In  this  little  room  the  books, 
and  pictures,  and  other  refinements  appealed  to 
senses  unmoved  before.  She  drew  in  some  fresh 
experience  with  almost  every  breath. 

One  evening,  after  a  specially  discouraging  day, 
it  occurred  to  Grace  that  he  would  go  and  see 
Joan ;  and  dropping  in  upon  her  on  his  way  back  to 
town,  after  a  visit  to  a  parishioner  who  lived  upon 


THAT  LASS  O'   LOWRIE'S        141 

the  high-road,  he  found  the  girl  sitting  alone — sit 
ting  as  she  often  did,  with  the  child  asleep  upon 
her  knee ;  but  this  time  with  a  book  lying  close 
to  its  hand  and  her  own.  It  was  Anice's 
Bible. 

"Will  yo'  set  down?"  she  said  in  a  voice  whose 
sound  was  new  to  him.  "  Theer's  a  chair  as  yo' 
con  tak'.  I  conna  move  fur  fear  o'  wakenin'  th' 
choild.  I'm  fain  to  see  yo'  to-neet." 

He  took  the  chair  and  thanked  her,  and  waited 
for  her  next  words.  Only  a  few  moments  she 
was  silent,  and  then  she  looked  up  at  him. 

"  I  ha'  been  readin'  th'  Bible,"  she  said,  as  if  in 
desperation.  "  I  dunnot  know  why,  unless  hap 
pen  some  un  stronger  nor  me  set  me  at  it. 
Happen  it  coom  out  o'  settin  here  wi'  th'  choild. 
An' — well,  queer  enow,  I  coom  reet  on  summat 
about  childer, — that  little  un  as  he  tuk  and  set  i' 
th'  midst  o'  them,  an'  then  that  theer  when  he 
said  '  Suffer  th'  little  childer  to  coom  unto  me.' 
Do  yo'  say  aw  that's  true  ?  I  nivver  thowt  on  it 
afore, — but  somehow  I  should  na  loike  to  think  it 
wur  na.  Nay,  I  should  na!"  Then,  after  a 
moment's  pause — "  I  nivver  troubled  mysen  wi' 
readin'  th'  Bible  afore,"  she  went  on,  "  I  ha'  na 
lived  wi'  th'  Bible  soart;  but  now  —  well  that 
theer  has  stirred  me  up.  If  he  said  that — if  he 
said  it  hissen  —  Ah!  mester,"  —  and  the  words 
breaking  from  her  were  an  actual  cry, — "Aye, 


142       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

master,  look  at  th'  little  un  here !  I  munnot  go 
wrong — I  munnot,  if  he  said  it  hissen  ! " 

He  felt  his  heart  beat  quick,  and  his  pulses 
throb.  Here  was  the  birth  of  a  soul ;  here  in  his 
hands  perhaps  lay  the  rescue  of  two  immortal 
beings.  God  help  him  !  he  cried  inwardly.  God 
help  him  to  deal  rightly  with  this  woman.  He 
found  words  to  utter,  and  uttered  them  with 
courage  and  with  faith.  What  words  it  matters 
not, — but  he  did  not  fail.  Joan  listened  wonder 
ing,  and  in  a  passion  of  fear  and  belief. 

She  clasped  her  arms  about  the  child  almost  as 
if  seeking  help  from  it,  and  wept. 

"  I  munnot  go  wrong,"  she  said  over  and  over 
again.  "  How  could  I  hold  th'  little  un  back,  if 
he  said  hissen  as  she  mun  coom  ?  If  it's  true  as 
he  said  that,  I'll  believe  aw  th'  rest  an'  listen  to 
yo'.  '  Forbid  them  not — '.  Nay,  but  I  wunnot 
—I  could  na  ha'  th'  heart." 


CHAPTER   XW 
"Owd  Sammy"  in  Trouble 

"CRADDOCK  is  in  serious  trouble,"  said  Mr, 
Barholm  to  his  wife  and  daughter. 

" '  Owd  Sammy '  in  trouble,"  said  Anice.  "  How 
is  that,  papa  ?  " 

The  Reverend  Harold  looked  at  once  con 
cerned  and  annoyed.  In  truth  he  had  cause  for 
irritation.  The  laurels  he  had  intended  to  win 
through  Sammy  Craddock  were  farther  from 
being  won  to-day  than  they  had  ever  been.  He 
was  beginning  to  feel  a  dim,  scarcely  developed, 
but  sore  conviction,  that  they  were  not  laurels 
for  his  particular  wearing. 

"  It  is  that  bank  failure  at  Illsbery,"  he  an 
swered.  "  You  have  heard  of  it,  I  dare  say.  There 
has  been  a  complete  crash,  and  Craddock's  small 
savings  being  deposited  there,  he  has  lost  every 
thing  he  depended  upon  to  support  him  in  his  old 
age.  It  is  a  hard  business." 

"  Have  you  been  to  see  Craddock  ?  "  Mrs.  Bar- 
holm  asked. 

"  Oh !  yes,"  was  the  answer,  and  the  irritation 
became  even  more  apparent  than  before.  "  I  went 


144       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

as  soon  as  I  heard  it,  last  night  indeed;  but  it 
was  of  no  use.  I  had  better  have  stayed  away. 
I  don't  seem  to  make  much  progress  with  Crad- 
dock,  somehow  or  other.  He  is  such  a  cross- 
grained,  contradictory  old  fellow,  I  hardly  know 
what  to  make  of  him.  And  to  add  to  his  difficul 
ties,  his  wife  is  so  prostrated  by  the  blow  that 
she  is  confined  to  her  bed.  I  talked  to  them  and 
advised  them  to  have  patience,  and  look  for  com 
fort  to  the  Fountain-head ;  but  Craddock  almost 
seemed  to  take  it  ill,  and  was  even  more  disre 
spectful  in  manner  than  usual." 

It  was  indeed  a  heavy  blow  that  had  fallen 
upon  "  Owd  Sammy."  For  a  man  to  lose  his  all 
at  his  time  of  life  would  have  been  hard  enough 
anywhere;  but  it  was  trebly  hard  to  meet  with 
such  a  trial  in  Riggan.  To  have  money,  however 
small  a  sum,  "laid  by  i'  th*  bank,"  was  in  Riggan 
to  be  illustrious.  The  man  who  had  an  income 
of  ten  shillings  a  week  was  a  member  of  society 
whose  opinion  bore  weight;  the  man  with  twenty 
was  regarded  with  private  awe  and  public  re 
spect.  He  was  deferred  to  as  a  man  of  property ; 
his  presence  was  considered  to  confer  something 
like  honor  upon  an  assembly,  or  at  least  to  make 
it  respectable.  The  Government  was  supposed 
to  be  not  entirely  oblivious  of  his  existence,  and 
his  remarks  upon  the  affairs  of  the  nation,  and  the 
conduct  of  the  Prime  Minister  and  Cabinet,  were 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S        145 

regarded  as  having  something  more  than  local 
interest.  Sammy  Craddock  had  been  the  man 
with  twenty  shillings  income.  He  had  worked 
hard  in  his  youth  and  had  been  too  shrewd  and 
far-sighted  to  spend  hard.  His  wife  had  helped 
him,  and  a  lucky  windfall  upon  the  decease  of  a 
parsimonious  relative  had  done  the  rest.  The 
weekly  deposit  in  the  old  stocking  hidden  under 
the  mattress  had  become  a  bank  deposit,  and  by 
the  time  he  was  incapacitated  from  active  labor, 
a  decent  little  income  was  ready.  When  the 
Illsbery  Bank  stopped  payment,  not  only  his 
daily  bread  but  his  dearly  valued  importance 
was  swept  away  from  him  at  one  fell  blow.  In 
stead  of  being  a  man  of  property,  with  a  voice  in 
the  affairs  of  the  nation,  he  was  a  beggar.  He 
saw  himself  set  aside  among  the  frequenters  of 
The  Crown,  his  political  opinions  ignored,  his 
sarcasms  shorn  of  their  point.  Knowing  his 
poverty  and  misfortune,  the  men  who  had  stood 
in  awe  of  him  would  begin  to  suspect  him  of 
needing  their  assistance  and  would  avoid  him 
accordingly. 

"  It's  human  natur',"  he  said.  "  No  one  loikes 
a  dog  wi'  th'  mange,  whether  th'  dog's  to  blame 
or  no.  Th'  dog  may  ha'  getten  it  honest.  'Tis 
na  th'  dog,  it's  the  mange  as  foakes  want  to  get 
rid  on." 

"  Providence  ?  "  said  he  to  the  Rector,  when 
10 


146       THAT   LASS  O'   LOWRIE'S 

that  portly  consoler  called  on  him.  "  It's  Provi 
dence,  is  it  ?  Well,  aw  I  say  is,  that  if  that's  th' 
ways  o'  Providence,  th'  less  notice  Providence 
takes  o'  us,  th'  better." 

His  remarks  upon  his  first  appearance  at  The 
Crown  among  his  associates,  after  the  occurrence 
of  the  misfortune,  were  even  more  caustic  and  ir 
reverent.  He  was  an  irreverent  old  sinner  at  his 
best,  and  now  Sammy  was  at  his  worst.  Seeing  his 
crabbed,  wrinkled  old  face  drawn  into  an  expres 
sion  signifying  defiance  at  once  of  his  ill  luck  and 
worldly  comment,  his  acquaintances  shook  their 
heads  discreetly.  Their  reverence  for  him  as  a 
man  of  property  could  not  easily  die  out.  The 
next  thing  to  being  a  man  of  property,  was  to 
have  possessed  worldly  goods  which  had  been 
"  made  away  wi',"  it  scarcely  mattered  how.  In 
deed  even  to  have  "  made  away  wi'  a  mort  o' 
money  "  one's  self,  was  to  be  regarded  a  man  of 
parts  and  of  no  inconsiderable  spirit. 

"  Yo're  in  a  mort  o'  trouble,  Sammy,  I  mak'  no 
doubt,"  remarked  one  oracle,  puffing  at  his  long 
clay. 

"  Trouble  enow,"  returned  Sammy,  shortly,  "  if 
you  ca'  it  trouble  to  be  on  th'  road  to  th'  poor- 
house." 

"  Aye,  indeed  !  "  with  a  sigh.  "  I  should  think 
so.  But  trouble's  th'  lot  o'  mon.  Riches  is  de 
ceitful  an'  beauty  is  vain — not  as  tha  wur  ivver 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S       147 

much  o*  a  beauty,  Sammy  ;  I  canna  mean 
that." 

"  Dunnot  hurt  thysen  explaining  I  nivver  set 
up  fur  one.  I  left  that  to  thee.  Thy  mug  wus 
allus  thy  fortune." 

"  Tha'rt  fretted  now,  Sammy,"  he  said. 
"  Tha'rt  fretted,  an'  it  maks  thee  sharp-tongued." 

"  Loike  as  not,"  answered  Sammy.  "  Frettin' 
works  different  wi'  some  foak  to  what  it  does  wi' 
others.  I  nivver  seed  thee  fretted,  mysen.  Does 
it  ha'  th'  same  effect  on  thee  ?  If  it  happens  to,  I 
should  think  it  would  na  harm  thee, — or  other 
foak  either.  A  bit  o'  sharpness  is  na  so  hard  to 
stand  wheer  it's  a  variety." 

"  Sithee,  Sammy,"  called  out  a  boisterous  young 
fellow  from  the  other  side  of  the  room.  "  What 
did  th'  Parson  ha'  to  say  to  thee  ?  Thwaite  wur 
tellin'  me  as  he  carried  th'  prayer-book  to  thee, 
as  soon  as  he  heerd  th'  news.  Did  he  read  thee 
th'  Christenin*  service,  or  th'  Burial,  to  gi'  thee  a 
bit  o'  comfort  ?  " 

"  Happen  he  gi'  him  both,  and  throwed  in  th' 
Litany,"  shouted  another.  "  How  wur  it,  Sammy  ? 
Let's  hear." 

Sammy's  face  began  to  relax.  A  few  of  the 
knots  and  wrinkles  showed  signs  of  dispersing. 
A  slow  twisting  of  the  features  took  place,  which 
might  have  been  looked  upon  as  promising  a  smile 
in  due  course  of  time.  These  young  fellows 


148       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

wanted  to  hear  him  talk,  and  "  tak'  off  th'  Paiv 
son."  His  occupation  was  not  entirely  gone,  af 
ter  all.  It  was  specially  soothing  to  his  vanity  to 
feel  that  his  greatest  importance  lay  in  his  own 
powers,  and  not  altogether  in  more  corruptible 
and  uncertain  attractions.  He  condescended  to 
help  himself  to  a  pipe-full  of  a  friend's  tobacco. 

"  Let's  hear,"  cried  a  third  member  of  the  com 
pany.  "  Gi'  us  th'  tale  owt  an'  owt,  owd  lad. 
Tha'rt  th'  one  to  do  it  graidely." 

Sammy  applied  a  lucifer  to  the  fragrant  weed, 
and  sucked  at  his  pipe  deliberately. 

"  It's  noan  so  much  of  a  tale,"  he  said,  with  an 
air  of  disparagement  and  indifference.  "Yo' 
chaps  mak'  so  much  out  o'  nowt.  Th'  Parson's 
well  enow  i'  his  way,  but,"  in  naive  self-satisfac 
tion,  "  I  mun  say  he's  a  foo',  an*  th'  biggest  foo* 
fur  his  size  I  ivver  had  th'  pleasure  o'  seein'." 

They  knew  the  right  chord  was  touched.  A 
laugh  went  round,  but  there  was  no  other  inter 
ruption  and  Sammy  proceeded. 

"  Whatten  yo'  lads  think  as  th'  first  thing  he 
says  to  me  wur?"  puffing  vigorously.  "Why, 
he  cooms  in  an'  sets  hissen  down,  an'  he  swells 
hissen  out  loike  a  frog  i'  trouble,  an'  ses  he,  '  My 
friend,  I  hope  you  cling  to  th'  rock  o'  ages/  An' 
ses  I,  '  No  I  dunnot  nowt  o'  th'  soart,  an'  be 
dom'd  to  yo'.'  It  wur  na  hos/zVible,"  with  a  mo 
mentary  touch  of  deprecation, — "An*  I  dunnot 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S        149 

say  as  it  wur  hospitible,  but  I  wor  na  i'  th'  mood 
to  be  hospitible  just  at  th'  toime.  It  tuk  him 
back  too,  but  he  gettin  round  after  a  bit,  an'  he 
tacklet  me  agen,  an'  we  had  it  back'ard  and 
for'ard  betwixt  us  for  a  good  haaf  hour.  He  said 
it  wur  Providence,  an'  I  said,  happen  it  wur,  an' 
happen  it  wurn't.  I  wur  na  so  friendly  and  fa 
miliar  wi'  th'  Lord  as  he  seemed  to  be,  so  I  could 
na  tell  foak  aw  he  meant,  and  aw  he  did  na  mean. 
Sithee  here,  lads,"  making  a  fist  of  his  knotty  old 
hand  and  laying  it  upon  the  table,  "  that  theer's 
what  stirs  me  up  wi'  th'  parson  kind.  They're 
allus  settin  down  to  explain  what  th'  Lord- 
amoigty's  up  to,  as  if  he  wur  a  confidential  friend 
o'  theirs  as  they  wur  bound  to  back  up  i*  some 
road  ;  an'  they  mun  drag  him  in  endways  or  side 
ways  i'  their  talk  whether  or  not,  an'  they  wun- 
not  be  content  to  leave  him  to  work  fur  hissen. 
Seems  to  me  if  I  wur  a  disciple  as  they  ca'  it,  I 
should  be  ashamed  i'  a  manner  to  be  allus  apolo- 
gizin'  fur  him  as  I  believed  in.  I  dunnot  say  for 
'em  to  say  nowt,  but  I  do  say  for  'em  not  to  be  so 
dom'd  free  an'  easy  about  it.  Now  theer's  th' 
owd  Parson,  he's  getten  a  lot  o'  Bible  words  as 
he  uses,  an'  he  brings  'em  in  by  the  scruft  o'  th' 
neck,  if  he  canna  do  no  better, — fur  bring  'em  in 
he  mun, — an'  it  looks  loike  he's  aw  i'  a  fever  till 
he's  said  'em  an'  getten  'em  off  his  moind.  An' 
it  seems  to  me  loike,  when  he  has  said  'em,  he 


150       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

soart  o'  straightens  hissen  out,  an'  feels  comfort- 
able,  loike  a  mon  as  has  done  a  masterly  job  as 
conna  be  mended.  As  fur  me,  yo'  know,  I'm 
noan  the  Methody  soart  mysen,  but  I  am  na  a 
foo',  an'  I  know  a  foine  loike  principle  when  I  see 
it,  an'  this  matter  o'  religion  is  a  foine  enow  thing 
if  yo'  could  get  it  straightfor'ard  an'  plain  wi'out 

so  much  trimmins.  But "  feeling  perhaps 

that  this  was  a  large  admission,  "  I  am  noan  o'  th* 
Methody  breed  mysen." 

"An'  so  tha  tellt  Parson,  I'll  warrant,"  sug 
gested  one  of  his  listeners,  who  was  desirous  of 
hearing  further  particulars  of  the  combat. 

"  Well,  well,"  admitted  Craddock  with  the  self, 
satisfaction  of  a  man  who  feels  that  he  has  ac 
quitted  himself  creditably.  "  Happen  I  did.  He 
wur  fur  havin'  me  thank  th'  A'moighty  fur  aw  ut 
had  happent  me,  but  I  towd  him  as  I  did  na 
quoite  see  th'  road  clear.  I  dunnot  thank  a  chap 
as  gi'es  me  a  crack  at  th'  soide  o'  th'  yed.  I  may 
stand  it  if  so  be  as  I  conna  gi'  him  a  crack  back, 
but  I  dunnot  know  as  I  should  thank  him  fur  th' 
favor,  an'  not  bein'  one  o'  th'  regenerate,  as  he  ca's 
'em,  I  dunnot  feel  loike  singin*  hymns  just  yet ; 
happen  it's  'cause  I'm  onregenerate,  or  happen  it's 
human  natur'.  I  should  na  wonder  if  it's  *  pull 
devil,  pull  baker,'  wi'  th'  best  o'  foak, — foak  as  is 
na  prize  foo's,  loike  th'  owd  Parson.  Ses  I  to 
him,  '  Not  bein'  regenerate,  I  dunnot  believe  i'  so 


THAT   LASS  O'   LOWRIE'S       151 

much  grace  afore  meat.     I  say,  lets  ha*  th'  meat 
first,  an'  th'  grace  arterward.' " 

These  remarks  upon  matters  theological  were 
applauded  enthusiastically  by  Craddock's  audi 
ence.  "  Owd  Sammy "  had  finished  his  say, 
however,  and  believing  that  having  temporarily 
exhausted  his  views  upon  any  subject,  it  was  well 
to  let  the  field  lie  fallow,  he  did  not  begin  again. 
He  turned  his  attention  from  his  audience  to  his 
pipe,  and  the  intimate  friends  who  sat  near  him. 

"  What  art  tha  goin'  to  do,  owd  lad  ? "  asked 
one. 

"  Try  fur  a  seat  i*  Parlyment,"  was  the  answer, 
"or  pack  my  bits  o*  duds  i'  a  wheelbarrow,  an* 
set  th'  owd  lass  on  'em  an'  tak'  th'  nighest  road  to 
th'  Union.  I  mun  do  summat  fur  a  bein'." 

"  That's  true  enow.  We're  main  sorry  fur  thee, 
Sammy.  Tak'  another  mug  o'  sixpenny  to  keep 
up  thy  sperrets.  Theer's  nowt  as  cheers  a  mon 
loike  a  sup  o'  th'  reet  soart." 

"  I  shanna  get  much  on  it  if  I  go  to  th*  poor- 
house,"  remarked  Sammy,  filling  his  beer  mug. 
"  Skilly  an*  water-gruel  dunnot  fly  to  a  mon's 
head,  I'll  warrant.  Aye !  I  wonder  how  th'  owd 
lass'll  do  wi'out  her  drop  o'  tea,  an'  how  she'll 
stand  bein'  buried  by  th'  parish  ?  That'll  be 
worse  than  owt  else.  She'd  set  her  moind  on 
ridin'  to  th'  grave-yard  i'  th'  shiniest  hearse  as 
could  be  getten,  an'  wi'  aw  th'  black  feathers  i' 


152       THAT  LASS  O'   LOWRIE'S 

th'  undertaker's  shop  wavin'  on  th'  roof.  Th'  owd 
wench  wur  quoite  set  i'  her  notion  o'  bein'  a  bit 
fashynable  at  th'  last.  I  believe  hoo'd  ha'  enjoyed 
th'  ride  in  a  quiet  way.  Eh,  dear !  I'm  feart 
she'll  nivver  be  able  to  stand  th'  thowt  o'  bein' 
put  under  i'  a  common  style.  I  wish  we'd  kept  a 
bit  o'  brass  i'  th'  owd  stockin'." 

"  It's  a  bad  enow  lookout,"  granted  another, 
"but  I  would  na  gi'  up  aw  at  onct,  Sammy. 
Happen  tha  could  find  a  bit  o'  leet  work,  as  ud 
keep  thee  owt  o'  th'  Union.  If  tha  could  get  a 
word  or  two  spoke  to  Mester  Hoviland,  now. 
He's  jest  lost  his  lodge-keeper  an'  he  is  na  close 
about  payin'  a  mon  fur  what  he  does.  How 
would  tha  loike  to  keep  the  lodge  ?  " 

"  It  ud  be  aw  I'd  ax,"  said  Sammy.  "  I'd  be 
main  well  satisfied,  yo'  mebbe  sure ;  but  yo'  know 
theer's  so  mony  lookin'  out  for  a  job  o'  that  koind, 
an'  I  ha'  na  mony  friends  among  th'  quality.  I 
nivver  wur  smooth-tongued  enow." 

True  enough  that.  Among  the  country  gentry, 
Sammy  Craddock  was  regarded  as  a  disrespect 
ful,  if  not  a  dangerous,  old  fellow.  A  man  who 
made  satirical  observations  upon  the  ways  and 
manners  of  his  social  superiors,  could  not  be  much 
better  than  a  heretic.  And  since  his  associates 
made  an  oracle  of  him,  he  was  all  the  more  dan 
gerous.  He  revered  neither  Lords  nor  Com 
mons,  and  was  not  to  be  awed  by  the  most  im- 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S        153 

posing  institutions.  He  did  not  take  his  hat  off 
when  the  gentry  rode  by,  and  it  was  well  known 
that  he  had  jeered  at  several  of  the  most  impor 
tant  individuals  in  county  office.  Consequently, 
discreet  persons  who  did  not  believe  in  the  morals 
of  "  the  masses  "  shook  their  heads  at  him,  figura 
tively  speaking,  and  predicted  that  the  end  of  his 
career  would  be  unfortunate.  So  it  was  not  very 
likely  that  he  would  receive  much  patronage  in 
the  hour  of  his  downfall. 

Sammy  Craddock  was  in  an  uncomfortable 
frame  of  mind  when  he  left  his  companions  and 
turned  homeward.  It  was  a  bad  lookout  for  him 
self,  and  a  bad  one  for  "  th'  owd  lass."  His  sym 
pathy  for  the  good  woman  was  not  of  a  sentimental 
order,  but  it  was  sympathy  nevertheless.  He  had 
been  a  good  husband,  if  not  an  effusive  one.  "  Th' 
owd  lass"  had  known  her  only  rival  in  The  Crown 
and  his  boon  companions;  and  upon  the  whole, 
neither  had  interfered  with  her  comfort,  though 
it  was  her  habit  and  her  pleasure  to  be  loud  in 
her  condemnation  and  disparagement  of  both. 
She  would  not  have  felt  her  connubial  life  com 
plete  without  a  grievance,  and  Sammy's  tendency 
to  talk  politics  over  his  pipe  and  beer  was  her 
standard  resource. 

When  he  went  out,  he  had  left  her  lying  down 
in  the  depths  of  despair,  but  when  he  entered  the 
house,  he  found  her  up  and  dressed,  seated  by 


154       THAT  LASS  O'   LOWRIE'S 

the  window  in  the  sun,  a  bunch  of  bright  flowers 
before  her. 

"  Well  now ! "  he  exclaimed.  "  Tha  nivver 
says!  What's  takken  thee?  I  thowt  tha  wur 
bedrid  fur  th'  rest  o'  thy  days." 

"  Howd  thy  tongue,"  she  answered  with  a 
proper  touch  of  wifely  irritation  at  his  levity. 
"  I've  had  a  bit  o'  company  an'  it's  chirked  me  up 
summat.  That  little  lass  o'  th*  owd  Parson  has 
been  settin  wi'  me." 

"That's  it,  is  it?" 

"  Aye,  an*  I  tell  yo'  Sammy,  she*s  a  noice  little 
wench.  Why,  she's  getten  th'  ways  o'  a  woman, 
stead  o'  a  lass, — she's  that  theer  quoiet  an'  steady, 
an'  she's  getten  a  face  as  pretty  as  her  ways, 
too." 

Sammy  scratched  his  head  and  reflected. 

"I  mak'  no  doubt  on  it,"  he  answered.  "I 
mak'  no  doubt  on  it.  It  wur  her,  tha  knows,  as 
settlet  th'  foight  betwixt  th'  lads  an'  th'  dog.  I'm 
wonderin'  why  she  has  na  been  here  afore." 

"  Well  now !  "  taking  up  a  stitch  in  her  knitting, 
"  that's  th'  queer  part  o'  it.  Whatten  yo*  think 
th'  little  thing  said,  when  I  axt  her  why  ?  She 
says,  '  It  did  na  seem  loike  I  was  needed  exactly, 
an*  I  did  na  know  as  yo'd  care  to  ha'  a  stranger 
coom  wi'out  bein*  axt.'  Just  as  if  she  had  been 
nowt  but  a  neebor's  lass,  and  would  na  tak'  iti 
liberty." 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S       155 

"That's  noan  th*  owd  Parson's  way,"  said 
Sammy. 

"  Th'  owd  Parson ! "  testily ;  "  I  ha*  no  patience 
wi'  him.  Th'  little  lass  is  as  different  fro'  him  as 
chalk  is  fro'  cheese.*' 


CHAPTER  XVII 

The  Member  of  Parliament 

THE  morning  following,  Anice's  father  being 
called  away  by  business  left  Riggan  for  a  few 
days'  absence,  and  it  was  not  until  after  he  had 
gone,  that  the  story  of  Mr.  Haviland's  lodge- 
keeper  came  to  her  ears.  Mr.  Haviland  was  a 
Member  of  Parliament,  a  rich  man  with  a  large 
estate,  and  his  lodge-keeper  had  just  left  him  to 
join  a  fortunate  son  in  America.  Miss  Barholm 
heard  this  from  one  of  her  village  friends  when 
she  was  out  with  the  phaeton  and  the  gray  pony, 
and  she  at  once  thought  of  Sammy  Craddock. 
The  place  was  the  very  thing  for  him.  The  duties 
were  light,  the  lodge  was  a  pretty  and  comfort 
able  cottage,  and  Mr.  Haviland  was  known  to  be 
a  generous  master.  If  Sammy  could  gain  the 
situation,  he  was  provided  for.  But  of  course 
there  were  other  applicants,  and  who  was  to  speak 
for  him?  She  touched  up  the  gray  pony  with 
her  whip,  and  drove  away  from  the  woman  who 
had  told  her  the  news,  in  a  perplexed  frame  of 
mind.  She  herself  knew  Mr.  Haviland  only  by 
sight,  his  estate  was  three  miles  from  the  village, 


THAT   LASS  O'   LOWRIE'S        157 

her  father  was  away,  and  there  was  really  no  time 
to  be  lost.  She  drove  to  the  corner  of  the  road 
and  paused  there  for  a  moment. 

"  Oh  indeed,  I  must  go  myself,"  she  said  at  last. 
"  It  is  unconventional,  but  there  is  no  other  way." 
And  she  bent  over  and  touched  the  pony  again 
and  turned  the  corner  without  any  further  delay. 

She  drove  her  three  miles  at  a  pretty  steady 
trot,  and  at  the  end  of  the  third, — at  the  very 
gates  of  the  Haviland  Park,  in  fact, — fortune  came 
to  her  rescue.  A  good-humored  middle-aged 
gentleman  on  a  brown  horse  came  cantering  down 
the  avenue  and,  passing  through  the  gates,  ap 
proached  her.  Seeing  her,  he  raised  his  hat  cour 
teously  ;  seeing  him,  she  stopped  her  pony,  for 
she  recognized  Mr.  Haviland. 

She  bent  forward  a  little  eagerly,  feeling  the 
color  rise  to  her  face. 

It  was  somewhat  trying  to  find  herself  obliged 
by  conscience  to  stop  a  gentleman  on  the  high 
way  and  ask  a  favor  of  him. 

"  Mr.  Haviland,"  she  said.  "  If  you  have  a  mo 
ment  to  spare " 

He  drew  rein  by  her  phaeton,  removing  his  hat 
again.  He  had  heard  a  great  deal  of  Miss  Bar- 
holm  from  his  acquaintance  among  the  county 
families.  He  had  heard  her  spoken  of  as  a  rather 
singular  young  lady  who  had  the  appearance  of  a 
child,  and  the  views  of  a  feminine  reconstructor 


158       THAT   LASS  O'  LOWRIE'S 

of  society.  He  had  heard  of  her  little  phaeton 
too,  and  her  gray  pony,  and  so,  though  he  had 
never  seen  her  before,  he  recognized  her  at  once. 

"  Miss  Barholm  ?  "  he  said  with  deference. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Anice.  "  And  indeed  I  am 
glad  to  have  been  fortunate  enough  to  meet  you 
here.  Papa  is  away  from  home,  and  I  could  not 
wait  for  his  return,  because  I  was  afraid  I  should 
be  too  late.  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you  about  the 
lodge-keeper's  place,  Mr.  Haviland." 

He  had  been  rather  of  the  opinion  that  Miss 
Barholm  must  be  a  terrible  young  woman,  with  a 
tendency  to  model  cottages  and  night  schools. 

Young  ladies  who  go  out  of  the  ordinary  groove 
are  not  apt  to  be  attractive  to  the  average  English 
mind.  There  are  conventional  charities  in  which 
they  may  indulge, — there  are  Sunday-schools,  and 
rheumatic  old  women,  and  flannel  night-caps,  and 
Dorcas  societies,  and  such  things  to  which  people 
are  used  and  which  are  likely  to  alarm  nobody. 
Among  a  class  of  discreet  persons  these  are  held 
to  afford  sufficient  charitable  exercise  for  any 
well  regulated  young  woman ;  and  girls  whose 
plans  branch  out  in  other  directions  are  looked 
upon  with  some  coldness.  So  the  country  gentry, 
hearing  of  Miss  Barholm  and  her  novel  fancies,— 
her  teaching  in  a  night  school  with  a  young  cu 
rate,  her  friendship  for  the  daughter  of  a  dissi 
pated  collier,  her  intimate  acquaintance  with  rag- 


THAT    LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S       159 

ged  boys  and  fighting  terriers,  her  interest  in  the 
unhappy  mothers  of  nameless  babies, — hearing 
of  these  things,  I  say,  the  excellent  nonenthusiasts 
shook  their  heads  as  the  very  mildest  possible  ex 
pression  of  dissent.  They  suspected  strong-mind 
edness  and  "  reform  " — perhaps  even  politics  and 
a  tendency  to  advance  irregular  notions  concern, 
ing  the  ballot.  "  At  any  rate,"  said  they,  "  it  does 
not  look  well,  and  it  is  very  much  better  for  young 
persons  to  leave  these  matters  alone  and  do  as  oth 
ers  do  who  are  guided  wholly  by  their  elders." 

It  was  an  agreeable  surprise  to  Mr.  Haviland 
to  see  sitting  in  her  modest  phaeton,  a  quiet  girl 
who  looked  up  at  him  with  a  pair  of  the  largest 
and  clearest  eyes  he  had  ever  seen,  while  she 
told  him  about  Sammy  Craddock. 

"  I  want  the  place  very  much  for  him,  you  see,*' 
she  ended.  "  But  of  course  I  do  not  wish  to  be  un 
fair  to  any  one  who  may  want  it,  and  deserve  it 
more.  If  there  is  any  one  who  really  is  in  greater 
need  of  it,  I  suppose  I  must  give  it  up." 

"  But  I  am  glad  to  tell  you,  there  is  nobody," 
answered  Mr.  Haviland  quite  eagerly.  "  I  can 
assure  you,  Miss  Barholm,  that  the  half  dozen 
men  who  have  applied  to  me  are  without  a  soli 
tary  exception,  unmitigated  scamps — great  strong 
burly  fellows,  who  would,  ten  to  one,  spend  their 
days  in  the  public  house,  and  their  nights  in  my 
preserves,  and  leave  their  wives  and  children  to 


i6o      THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

attend  to  my  gates.  This  Craddock  is  evidently 
the  very  man  for  me;  I  am  not  a  model  land 
owner,  but  I  like  to  combine  charity  with  sub 
servience  to  my  own  interest  occasionally.  I  have 
heard  of  the  old  fellow.  Something  of  a  dema 
gogue,  isn't  he?  But  that  will  not  frighten  me. 
I  will  allow  him  to  get  the  better  of  me  in  politi 
cal  discussion,  if  he  will  leave  my  pheasants 
alone." 

"  I  will  answer  for  the  pheasants,"  said  Anice, 
"  if  you  will  let  me  send  him  to  you." 

"  I  will  see  him  to-morrow  morning  with  pleas 
ure,"  said  Mr.  Haviland.  "  And  if  there  is  any 
thing  else  I  can  do,  Miss  Barholm " 

"  Thank  you,  there  is  nothing  else  at  present. 
Indeed,  you  do  not  know  how  grateful  I  feel." 

Before  an  hour  had  passed,  Sammy  Craddock 
heard  the  good  news.  Anice  drove  back  to  his 
house  and  told  him,  without  delay. 

"  If  you  will  go  to-morrow  morning,  Mr.  Havi 
land  will  see  you,"  she  ended  ;  "  and  I  think  you 
will  be  good  friends,  Mr.  Craddock." 

"  Owd  Sammy  "  pushed  his  spectacles  up  on  his 
forehead,  and  looked  at  her. 

"  An'  tha  went  at  th'  business  o'  thy  own  ac 
cord  an' managt  it  i'  haaf  an  hour!"  he  said. 
"  Well,  I'm  dom'd, — axin  your  pardin  fur  takkin 
th'  liberty  ;  it's  a  habit  I've  getten — but  I  be,  an' 
no  mistake." 


THAT  LASS  O'   LOWRIE'S        161 

He  had  not  time  to  get  over  his  grateful  amaze 
ment  and  recover  his  natural  balance  before  she 
had  said  all  she  had  come  to  say,  and  was  gone, 
leaving  him  with  "th*  owd  lass"  and  his  ad 
miration. 

"  Well,"  said  Sammy,  "  I  mun  say  I  nivver  seed 
nowt  loike  it  i'  my  loife.  To  think  o'  th'  little 
wench  ha'in'  so  mich  gumption,  an'  to  think  o' 
her  takkin  th'  matter  i'  hond  th'  minnit  she  struck 
it !  Why  !  hoo's  getten  as  mich  sense  as  a  mon. 
Eh !  but  hoo's  a  rare  un — I  said  it  when  I  seed 
her  amongst  th*  lads  theer,  an'  I  say  it  again. 
An'  hoo  is  na  mich  bigger  nor  six  penn'orth  o' 
copper  neyther.  An'  I  warrant  hoo  nivver  thowt 
o'  fillin  her  pocket  wi'  tracks  by  way  o'  comfort. 
Well,  tha'st  noan  ha'  to  dee  i'  th'  Union  after  aw, 
owd  lass,  an'  happen  we  con  save  a  bit  to  gi'  thee 
a  graidely  funeral  if  tha'lt  mak'  up  thy  moind  to 
Stay  to  th'  top  a  bit  longer." 
u 


CHAPTER 

A  Confession  of  Faith 

THE  Sunday  following  the  Curate's  visit  to 
Lowrie's  cottage,  just  before  the  opening  of  the 
morning  service  at  St.  Michael's,  Joan  Lowrie  en. 
tered,  and  walking  up  the  side  aisle,  took  her 
place  among  the  free  seats.  The  church  members 
turned  to  look  at  her  as  she  passed  their  pews. 
On  her  part,  she  seemed  to  see  nobody  and  to 
hear  nothing  of  the  rustlings  of  the  genteel  gar 
ments  stirred  by  the  momentary  excitement 
caused  by  her  appearance. 

The  Curate,  taking  his  stand  in  the  pulpit  that 
morning,  saw  after  the  first  moment  only  two 
faces  among  his  congregation.  One,  from  among 
the  old  men  and  women  in  the  free  seats,  looked 
up  at  him  with  questioning  in  its  deep  eyes,  as  if 
its  owner  had  brought  to  him  a  solemn  problem 
to  be  solved  this  very  hour,  or  forever  left  at 
rest;  the  other,  turned  toward  him  from  the  Bar- 
holm  pew,  alight  with  appeal  and  trust.  He 
stood  in  sore  need  of  the  aid  for  which  he  asked 
in  his  silent  opening  prayer. 

Some  of  his  flock  who  were  somewhat  prone  to 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S        163 

underrate  the  young  Parson's  talents,  were  moved 
to  a  novel  comprehension  of  them  this  morning. 
The  more  appreciative  went  home  saying  among 
themselves  that  the  young  man  had  power  after 
all,  and  for  once  at  least  he  had  preached  with 
uncommon  fire  and  pathos.  His  text  was  a  brief 
one, — but  three  words, — the  three  words  Joan  had 
read  beneath  the  picture  of  the  dead  Christ :  "  It 
is  finished ! " 

If  it  was  chance  that  led  him  to  them  to-day,  it 
was  a  strange  and  fortunate  chance,  and  surely  he 
had  never  preached  as  he  preached  then. 

After  the  service,  Anice  looked  for  Joan  in  vain ; 
she  had  gone  before  the  rest  of  the  congregation. 

But  in  the  evening,  being  out  in  the  garden  near 
the  holly  hedge,  she  heard  her  name  spoken,  and 
glancing  over  the  leafy  barrier,  saw  Joan  standing 
on  the  side  path,  just  as  she  had  seen  her  the  first 
time  they  had  spoken  to  each  other. 

"  I  ha'  na  a  minnit  to  stay,"  she  said  without 
any  prelude,  "  but  I  ha'  summat  to  say  to  yo'." 

Her  manner  was  quiet,  and  her  face  wore  a  soft 
ened  pallor.  Even  her  physical  power  for  a  time 
appeared  subdued.  And  yet  she  looked  steady 
and  resolved. 

"  I  wur  at  church  this  mornin',"  she  began  again 
almost  immediately. 

"  I  saw  you,"  Anice  answered. 

"  I  wur  nivver  theer  before.     I  went  to  see  fur 


164       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

mysen.  I  ha'  read  the  book  yo'  gi'  me,  an*  theer's 
things  in  it  as  I  nivver  heerd  on.  Mester  Grace 
too, — he  coom  to  see  me  an'  I  axt  him  questions. 
Theer  wur  things  as  I  wanted  to  know,  an'  now 
it  seems  loike  it  looks  clearer.  What  wi'  th*  pict- 
ur', — it  begun  wi'  th'  pictur', — an'  th'  book,  an' 
what  he  said  to-day  i'  church,  I've  made  up  my 
moind." 

She  paused  an  instant,  her  lips  trembled. 

"  I  dunnot  want  to  say  much  about  it  now,"  she 
said,  "  I  ha'  not  getten  th'  words.  But  I  thowt  as 
yo'd  loike  to  know.  I  believe  i*  th'  Book ;  I  be 
lieve  i'  th'  Cross ;  I  believe  i'  Him  as  deed  on  it ! 
That's  what  I  coom  to  say." 

The  woman  turned  without  another  word  and 
went  away. 

Anice  did  not  remain  in  the  garden.  The  spirit 
of  Joan  Lowrie's  intense  mood  communicated 
itself  to  her.  She,  too,  trembled  and  her  pulse 
beat  rapidly.  She  thought  of  Paul  Grace  and 
wished  for  his  presence.  She  felt  herself  drawn 
near  to  him  again.  She  wanted  to  tell  him  that 
his  harvest  had  come,  that  his  faithfulness  had  not 
been  without  its  reward.  Her  own  labor  she 
only  counted  as  chance-work. 

She  found  Fergus  Derrick  in  the  parlor,  talking 
to  her  mother. 

He  was  sitting  in  his  favorite  position,  leaning 
back  in  a  chair  before  a  window,  his  hands  clasped 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S        165 

behind  his  head.  His  friendly  intercourse  with 
the  family  had  extended  beyond  the  ceremonious 
epoch,  when  a  man's  attitudes  are  studied  and 
unnatural.  In  these  days  Derrick  was  as  much 
at  ease  at  the  Rectory  as  an  only  son  might  have 
been. 

"  I  thought  some  one  spoke  to  you  across  the 
hedge,  Anice  ?  "  her  mother  said. 

"  Yes,"  Anice  answered.   "  It  was  Joan  Lowrie." 

She  sat  down  opposite  Fergus,  and  told  him 
what  had  occurred.  Her  voice  was  not  quite 
steady,  and  she  made  the  relation  as  brief  as  pos 
sible.  Derrick  sat  looking  out  of  the  window 
without  moving. 

"  Mr.  Derrick,"  said  Anice  at  last,  after  a  few 
minutes  had  elapsed,  "  What  now  is  to  be  done 
with  Joan  Lowrie  ?  " 

Derrick  roused  himself  with  a  start  to  meet  her 
eyes  and  find  them  almost  sad. 

"  What  now  ?  "  he  said.  "  God  knows !  For  one, 
I  cannot  see  the  end." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

Ribbons 

THE  light  in  the  cottage  upon  the  Knoll  Road 
burned  late  in  these  days,  and  when  Derrick  was 
delayed  in  the  little  town,  he  used  to  see  it  twin- 
kle  afar  off,  before  he  turned  the  bend  of  the  road 
on  his  way  home.  He  liked  to  see  it.  It  became 
a  sort  of  beacon  light,  and  as  such  he  began  to 
watch  for  it.  He  used  to  wonder  what  Joan  was 
doing,  and  he  glanced  in  through  the  curtainless 
windows  as  he  passed  by.  Then  he  discovered 
that  when  the  light  shone  she  was  at  work. 
Sometimes  she  was  sitting  at  the  wooden  table 
with  a  book,  sometimes  she  was  laboring  at  some 
task  with  pen  and  ink,  sometimes  she  was  trying 
to  use  her  needle. 

She  had  applied  to  Anice  for  instruction  in  this 
last  effort.  It  was  not  long  before  Anice  found 
that  she  was  intent  upon  acquiring  the  womanly 
arts  her  life  had  put  it  out  of  her  power  to  learn. 

"  I'd  loike  to  learn  to  sew  a  bit,"  she  had  said, 
and  the  confession  seemed  awkward  and  reluc 
tant.  "  I  want  to  learn  to  do  a  bit  o'  woman's 
work.  I'm  tired  o'  bein*  neyther  th*  one  thing 


THAT   LASS   O7   LOWRIE'S        167 

nor  th'  other.  Seems  loike  I've  allus  been  doin* 
men's  ways,  an'  I  am  na  content." 

Two  or  three  times  Derrick  saw  her  passing  to 
and  fro  before  the  window,  hushing  the  child  in 
her  arms,  and  once  he  even  heard  her  singing  to 
it  in  a  low,  and  evidently  rarely  used  voice.  Up 
to  the  time  that  Joan  first  sang  to  the  child,  she 
had  never  sung  in  her  life.  She  caught  herself 
one  day  half  chanting  a  lullaby  she  had  heard 
Anice  sing.  The  sound  of  her  own  voice  was  so 
novel  to  her,  that  she  paused  all  at  once  in  her 
walk  across  the  room,  prompted  by  a  queer  im 
pulse  to  listen. 

"It  moight  ha*  been  somebody  else,"  she  said. 
"  I  wonder  what  made  me  do  it.  It  wur  a  queer 
thing." 

Sometimes  Derrick  met  Joan  entering  the  Rec 
tory  (at  which  both  were  frequent  visitors) ; 
sometimes,  passing  through  the  hall  on  her  way 
home ;  but  however  often  he  met  her,  he  never 
felt  that  he  advanced  at  all  in  her  friendship. 

On  one  occasion,  having  bidden  Anice  good- 
night  and  gone  out  on  the  staircase,  Joan  stepped 
hurriedly  back  into  the  room  and  stood  at  the 
door  as  if  waiting. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  Anice  asked. 

Joan  started.  She  had  looked  flushed  and 
downcast,  and  when  Anice  addressed  her,  an  ex« 
pressionof  conscious  self-betrayal  fell  upon  her. 


168       THAT  LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

u  It  is  Mester  Derrick,"  she  answered,  and  in  a 
moment  she  went  out. 

Anice  remained  seated  at  the  table,  her  hands 
clasped  before  her. 

"  Perhaps,"  at  last  she  said  aloud,  "  perhaps 
this  is  what  is  to  be  done  with  her.  And  then — " 
her  lips  tremulous, — "  it  will  be  a  work  for  me  to 
do." 

Derrick's  friendship  and  affection  for  herself 
held  no  germ  of  warmer  leeling.  If  she  had  had 
the  slightest  doubt  of  this,  she  would  have  relin 
quished  nothing.  She  had  no  exaggerated  no 
tions  of  self-immolation.  She  would  not  have 
given  up  to  another  woman  what  Heaven  had 
given  to  herself,  any  more  than  she  would  have 
striven  to  win  from  another  woman  what  had 
been  Heaven's  gift  to  her.  If  she  felt  pain,  it  was 
not  the  pain  of  a  small  envy,  but  of  a  great  ten 
derness.  She  was  capable  of  making  any  effort 
for  the  ultimate  good  of  the  man  she  could  have 
loved  with  the  whole  strength  of  her  nature. 

When  she  entered  her  room  that  night,  Joan 
Lowrie  was  moved  to  some  surprise  by  a  scene 
which  met  her  eyes.  It  was  a  simple  thing,  and 
under  some  circumstances  would  have  meant 
little ;  but  taken  in  connection  with  her  remem 
brance  of  past  events,  it  had  a  peculiar  signifi 
cance.  Liz  was  sitting  upon  the  hearth,  with 
some  odds  and  ends  of  bright-colored  ribbon  on 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S        169 

her  knee,  and  a  little  straw  hat  in  her  hand.  She 
was  trimming  the  hat,  and  using  the  scraps  of 
ribbon  for  the  purpose.  When  she  heard  Joan, 
she  looked  up  and  reddened  somewhat,  and  then 
hung  her  head  over  her  work  again. 

"  I'm  makin'  up  my  hat  agen,"  she  said,  almost 
deprecatingly.  "  It  wur  sich  a  faded  thing." 

"  Are  yo'  ?  "  said  Joan. 

She  came  and  stood  leaning  against  the  fire 
place,  and  looked  down  at  Liz  thoughtfully.  The 
shallowness  and  simplicity  of  the  girl  baffled  her 
continually.  She  herself,  who  was  prompted  in 
action  by  deep  motive  and  strong  feeling,  found 
it  hard  to  realize  that  there  could  be  a  surface 
with  no  depth  below. 

Her  momentary  embarrassment  having  died 
out,  Liz  had  quite  forgotten  herself  in  the  interest 
of  her  task.  She  was  full  of  self-satisfaction  and 
trivial  pleasure.  She  looked  really  happy  as  she 
tried  the  effect  of  one  bit  of  color  after  another, 
holding  the  hat  up.  Joan  had  never  known  her 
to  show  such  interest  in  anything  before.  One 
would  never  have  fancied,  seeing  the  girl  at  this 
moment,  that  a  blight  lay  upon  her  life,  that  she 
could  only  look  back  with  shrinking  and  forward 
without  hope.  She  was  neither  looking  backward 
nor  forward  now, — all  her  simple  energies  were 
concentrated  in  her  work.  How  was  it?  Joan 
asked  herself.  Had  she  forgotten — could  she  for- 


170       THAT  LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

get  the  past  and  be  ready  for  petty  vanities  and 
follies  ?  To  Joan,  Liz's  history  had  been  a  trag 
edy — a  tragedy  which  must  be  tragic  to  its  end. 
There  was  something  startlingly  out  of  keeping 
in  the  present  mood  of  this  pretty  seventeen, 
year-old  girl  sitting  eager  and  delighted  over  her 
lapful  of  ribbons.  Not  that  Joan  begrudged  her 
the  slight  happiness — she  only  wondered,  and 
asked  herself  how  it  could  be. 

Possibly  her  silence  attracted  Liz's  attention. 
Suddenly  she  looked  up,  and  when  she  saw  the 
gravity  of  Joan's  face,  her  own  changed. 

"  Yo're  grudgin'  me  doin'  it,"  she  cried.  "  Yo' 
think  I  ha'  no  reet  to  care  for  sich  things,"  and 
she  dropped  hat  and  ribbon  on  her  knee  with  an 
angry  gesture.  "  Happen  I  ha*  na,"  she  whim 
pered.  "  I  ha'  na  getten  no  reet  to  no  soart  o* 
pleasure,  I  dare  say." 

"  Nay,"  said  Joan  rousing  herself  from  her 
revery.  "  Nay,  yo'  must  na  say  that,  Liz.  If  it 
pleases  yo'  it  conna  do  no  hurt ;  I'm  glad  to  see 
yo'  pleased." 

"  I'm  tired  o'  doin'  nowt  but  mope  i'  th'  house," 
Liz  fretted.  "  I  want  to  go  out  a  bit  loike  other 
foak.  Theer's  places  i'  Riggan  as  I  could  go  to 
wi'out  bein'  slurred  at — theer's  other  wenches  as 
has  done  worse  nor  me.  Ben  Maxy  towd  Mary 
on'y  yesterday  as  I  was  the  prettiest  lass  i'  th* 
place,  fur  aw  their  slurs." 


THAT  LASS  O'   LOWRIE'S        171 

"  Ben  Maxy  ! "  Joan  said  slowly. 

Liz  twisted  a  bit  of  ribbon  around  her  finger. 

"  It's  not  as  I  care  fur  what  Ben  Maxy  says  or 
what  ony  other  mon  says,  fur  th'  matter  o'  that, 
but — but  it  shows  as  I  need  na  be  so  mich 
ashamed  o'  mysen  after  aw,  an*  need  na  stay 
i'  doors  as  if  I  dare  na  show  my  face." 

Joan  made  no  answer. 

"  An'  yet,"  she  said,  smiling  faintly  at  her  own 
train  of  thought  afterward,  "  I  dunnot  see  what 
I'm  complainin'  on.  Am  I  out  o'  patience  because 
her  pain  is  na  deeper?  Surely  I  am  na  wantin' 
her  to  mak'  th'  most  o'  her  burden.  I  mun  be 
a  queer  wench,  tryin'  to  mak'  her  happy,  an'  then 
feelin'  worrited  at  her  forgettin'  her  trouble.  It's 
well  as  she  con  let  things  slip  so  easy." 

But  there  came  times  when  she  could  not  help 
being  anxious,  seeing  Liz  gradually  drifting  out 
into  her  old  world  again.  She  was  so  weak,  and 
pretty,  and  frivolous,  so  ready  to  listen  to  rough 
flatteries.  Riggan  was  more  rigid  in  its  criti. 
cism  than  in  its  morality,  and  criticism  having 
died  out,  offence  was  forgotten  through  indiffer 
ence  rather  than  through  charity.  Those  who 
had  been  hardest  upon  Liz  in  her  day  of  darkness 
were  carelessly  ready  to  take  her  up  again  when 
her  fault  was  an  old  story  overshadowed  by  some 
newer  scandal. 

Joan  found  herself  left  alone  with  the  child 


172       THAT   LASS  O'   LOWRIE'S 

oftener  than  she  used  to  be,  but  in  truth  this  was 
a  relief  rather  than  otherwise.  She  was  accus 
tomed  to  solitude,  and  the  work  of  self-culture 
she  had  begun  filled  her  spare  hours  with  occupa 
tion. 

Since  his  dismissal  from  the  mines,  she  saw  but 
little  of  her  father.  Sometimes  she  saw  nothing 
of  him  for  weeks.  The  night  after  he  lost  his 
place,  he  came  into  the  house,  and  making  up  a 
small  bundle  of  his  personal  effects,  took  a  surly 
leave  of  the  two  women. 

"  I'm  goin'  on  th'  tramp  a  bit,"  he  said.  "  If 
yo're  axed,  yo'  con  say  I'm  gone  to  look  fur  a  job. 
My  day  has  na  coom  yet,  but  it's  on  th'  way." 

Since  then  he  had  only  returned  once  or  twice, 
and  his  visits  had  always  been  brief  and  unex 
pected,  and  at  night.  The  first  time  he  had  startled 
Joan  by  dropping  in  upon  her  at  midnight,  his 
small  bundle  on  his  knob-stick  over  his  shoulder, 
his  clothes  bespattered  with  road-side  mud.  He 
said  nothing  of  his  motive  in  coming — merely 
asked  for  his  supper  and  ate  it  without  much  re 
mark. 

"  I  ha'  na  had  luck,"  he  said.  "  Luck's  not  i'  my 
loine ;  I  wur  na  born  to  it,  loike  some  foak. 
Happen  th'  tide'll  tak'  a  turn  after  a  bit." 

"  Yore  feyther  wur  axin  me  about  th'  engineer," 
Liz  said  to  Joan  the  next  morning.  "  He  wanted 
to  know  if  we  seed  him  pass  heer  i'  his  road  hoam. 


THAT  LASS  O'   LOWRIE'S        173 

D'yo'  think  he's  getten  a  spite  agen  th'  engineer 
yet,  Joan  ?  " 

"  Fm  afeard,"  Joan  answered.  "  Feyther's  K  ike 
to  bear  a  grudge  agen  them  as  put  him  out, 
whether  they're  reet  or  wrong.  Liz "  hesi 
tating. 

"  What  is  it,  Joan  ?  " 

"  Dunnot  yo'  say  no  more  nor  yo'  con  help 
when  he  axes  yo'  about  th'  engineer.  I'm  wor- 
ritin'  mysen  lest  feyther  should  get  hissen  into 
trouble.  He's  hasty,  yo'  know." 

In  the  evening  she  went  out  and  left  the  child 
to  its  mother.  She  had  business  to  look  after, 
she  told  Liz,  and  it  would  keep  her  out  late. 
Whatever  the  business  was,  it  kept  her  out  so 
late  that  Liz  was  tired  of  waiting,  and  went  to 
bed  worn  out  and  a  trifle  fretted. 

She  did  not  know  what  hour  it  was  when  she 
awakened ;  voices  and  a  light  in  the  road  roused 
her,  and  almost  as  soon  as  she  was  fully  conscious, 
the  door  opened  and  Joan  came  in.  Liz  raised 
her  head  from  the  pillow  to  look  at  her.  She  was 
pale  and  seemed  excited.  She  was  even  trembling 
a  little,  and  her  voice  was  unsteady  as  she  asked, 

"Has  th'  little  un  been  quiet,  Liz?" 

"Quiet  enow,"  said  Liz.  "What  a  toime  yo' 
ha'  been,  Joan !  It  mun  be  near  midneet.  I  got 
so  worn  out  wi'  waitin'  fur  yo'  that  I  could  na  sit 
up  no  longer.  Wheer  ha'  yo'  been?" 


174       THAT  LASS  O'  LOWRIE'S 

"  I  went  to  Riggan,"  said  Joan.  "  Theer  wur 
summat  as  I  wur  obliged  to  see  to,  an'  I  wur  kept 
beyond  my  toime  by  summat  as  happent  But  it 
is  na  quoite  midneet,  though  it's  late  enow." 

"  Was  na  theer  a  lantern  wi'  yo'  ?  "  asked  Liz. 
"  I  thowt  I  seed  th'  leet  fro'  a  lantern." 

"  Yes,"  Joan  answered,  "  theer  wur  a  lantern. 
As  I  wur  turnin'  into  th'  road,  I  met  Mester  Der 
rick  comin'  fro'  th'  Rectory  an' — an'  he  walked 
alongside  o'  me." 


CHAPTER  XX 

The  New  Gate-Keeper 

SAMMY  CRADDOCK  made  his  appearance  at  Mr. 
Haviland's  promptly,  and  being  shown  into  the 
library,  which  was  empty,  took  a  seat  and  pro 
ceeded  to  regard  the  surroundings  critically. 

"Dunnot  scald  thy  nose  wi'  thy  own  broth," 
Mrs.  Craddock  had  said  to  him  warningly,  when 
he  left  her.  "  Keep  a  civil  tongue  i'  thy  head. 
Thy  toime  fur  saucin'  thy  betters  is  past  an* 
gone.  Tha'it  ha'  to  tak'  both  fat  an'  lean  to- 
gether  i'  these  days,  or  go  wi'out  mate." 

Sammy  remembered  these  sage  remarks  rather 
sorely,  as  he  sat  awaiting  the  master  of  the  house 
hold.  His  independence  had  been  very  dear  to 
him,  and  the  idea  that  he  must  relinquish  it  was 
a  grievous  thorn  in  the  flesh.  He  glanced  round 
at  the  pictures  and  statuettes  and  shook  his  head 
dubiously. 

"  A  mon  wi'  so  many  crinkum-crankums  as  he 
seems  to  ha'  getten  '11  be  apt  to  be  reyther  set  i' 
polytics.  An'  I'll  warrant  this  is  na  th'  best  par 
lor  neyther.  Aw  th'  wall  covered  wi'  books  too, 
an'  a  ornymental  step-lather  to  climb  up  to  th'  high 


176       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

shelves.  Well,  Sammy,  owd  lad,  tha's  not  seen 
aw  th'  world  yet,  tha  finds  out.  Theer's  a  bit  o* 
sum  mat  outside  Riggan.  After  aw,  it  does  a 
mon  no  hurt  to  travel.  I  should  na  wonder  if  I 
mought  see  things  as  I  nivver  heerd  on  if  I  getten 
as  fur  as  th'  Contynent.  Theer's  France  now— 
foak  say  as  they  dunnot  speak  Lancashire  i5 
France,  an*  conna  so  much  as  understand  it. 
Well,  theer's  ignorance  aw  o'er  th'  world." 

The  door  opened  at  this  juncture,  and  Mr. 
Haviland  entered — fresh,  florid  and  cordial.  His 
temperament  being  an  easy  one,  he  rather  dreaded 
collision  with  anybody,  and  would  especially  have 
disliked  an  uncomfortable  interview  with  this  old 
fellow.  He  would  like  to  be  able  to  preserve  his 
affability  of  demeanor  for  his  own  sake  as  well  as 
for  Miss  Barholm's. 

"  Ah ! "  he  said,  "  Craddock,  is  it?  Glad  to  see 
you,  Craddock." 

Sammy  rose  from  his  seat. 

"  Aye,"  he  answered.  "  Sam'll  Craddock  fro' 
Riggan.  Same  to  you,  Mester." 

Mr.  Haviland  waved  his  hand  good-naturedly. 

"  Take  your  seat  again,"  he  said.  "  Don't  stand. 
You  are  the  older  man  of  the  two,  you  know,  and 
I  dare  say  you  are  tired  with  your  walk.  You 
came  about  the  lodge-keeper's  place  ?  " 

"  That  little  lass  o'  th'  owd  Parson's "  began 

Sammy. 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S        177 

"Miss  Anice  Barholm,"  interposed  Mr.  Havi- 
land.  "  Yes,  she  told  me  she  would  send  you.  I 
never  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  her  until  she 
drove  here  yesterday  to  ask  for  the  place  for  you. 
She  was  afraid  to  lose  time  in  waiting  for  her 
father's  return." 

"  Yo'  nivver  saw  her  afore  ?  " 

"  No." 

"Well,"  rubbing  his  hands  excitedly  over  the 
knob  of  his  stick,  "  hoo's  a  rarer  un  than  I  thowt 
fur,  even.  Hoo'll  stond  at  nowt,  wont  that  little 
wench,"  and  he  gave  vent  to  his  feelings  in  a  de 
lighted  chuckle.  "  I'd  loike  to  ax  yo',"  he  added, 
"wheer's  th'  other  lass,  as  ud  ha'  had  the  pluck 
to  do  as  mich  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  there  is  another  woman  in  the 
country  who  would  have  done  it,"  said  Mr.  Havi- 
land  smiling.  "  We  shall  agree  in  our  opinion  of 
Miss  Barholm,  I  see,  Craddock,  if  we  quarrel 
about  everything  else." 

Sammy  took  out  his  flowered  bandanna  and 
wiped  his  bald  forehead.  He  was  at  once  molli 
fied  and  encouraged.  He  felt  that  he  was  being 
treated  with  a  kind  of  respect  and  consideration. 
Here  was  one  of  the  gentry  who  placed  himself 
on  a  friendly  footing  with  him.  Perhaps  upon 
the  whole  he  should  not  find  it  so  difficult  to  rec 
oncile  himself  to  his  change  of  position  after  all. 
And  being  thus  encouraged,  a  certain  bold  sim, 

12 


178       THAT   LASS  O'   LOWRIE'S 

plicity  made  him  address  himself  to  Mr.  Haviland 
not  as  a  servant  in  prospective  to  a  prospective 
master,  but  as  man  to  man. 

"  Th'  fact  is,"  he  said,  "as  I  am  na  mich  o'  a 
lass's  mon  mysen,  and  I  wunnot  say  as  I  ha'  mich 
opinion  o'  woman  foak  i'  general — they're  flighty 
yo'  see — they're  flighty ;  but  I  mun  say  as  I  wur 
tuk  by  that  little  wench  o'  th'  Parson's — I  wur  tuk 
by  her." 

"  She  would  be  glad  to  hear  it,  I  am  sure,"  with 
an  irony  so  suave  that  Sammy  proceeded  with 
fresh  gravity. 

"  I  mak'  no  doubt  on't,"  dogmatically.  "  I  mak' 
no  doubt  on't  i'  th'  world,  but  I  dunnot  know  as 
th'  flattery  ud  do  her  good.  Sugar  sop  is  na  o'er 
digestible  to  th'  best  o'  'em.  They  ha'  to  be  held 
a  bit  i'  check,  yo'  see.  But  hoo's  a  wonderfu* 
little  lass — fur  a  lass,  I  mun  admit.  Seems  a  pity 
to  ha'  wasted  so  mich  good  lad  metal  on  a  slip  o' 
a  wench, — does  na  it?  " 

"  You  think  so  ?  Well,  that  is  a  matter  of  opin 
ion,  you  know.  However — concerning  the  lodge- 
keeper's  place.  You  understand  what  your  duties 
would  be,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Tendin'  th'  gates  an'  th'  loike.  Aye  sir.  Th' 
little  lass  towd  me  aw  about  it.  Hoo  is  na  one  as 
misses  owt." 

"  So  I  see,"  smiling  again.  "  And  you  think 
you  can  perform  them?  " 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S        179 

"  I  wur  thinkin'  so.  It  did  na  stroike  me  as  a 
mon  need  to  be  partic'lar  muskylar  to  do  th'  reet 
thing  by  'em.  I  think  I  could  tackle  'em  wi'out 
breakin'  down." 

After  a  brief  discussion  of  the  subject,  it  was 
agreed  that  Mr.  Craddock  should  be  installed  as 
keeper  of  the  lodge  the  week  following. 

"  As  to  politics,"  said  Mr.  Haviland,  when  his 
visitor  rose  to  depart,  "  I  hear  you  are  something 
of  a  politician,  Craddock." 

"  Summat  o'  one,  sir,"  answered  Sammy,  his 
evident  satisfaction  touched  with  a  doubtful  grav 
ity.  "  Summat  o'  one.  I  ha'  my  opinions  o' 
things  i'  gineral." 

"  So  I  have  been  told ;  and  they  have  made  you 
rather  unpopular  among  our  county  people,  per- 
haps?" 

"  I  am  na  mich  o'  a  favorite,"  with  satisfaction. 

"  No,  the  fact  is  that  until  Miss  Barholm  came 
to  me  I  had  rather  a  bad  idea  of  you,  Craddock." 

This  looked  somewhat  serious,  Craddock  re 
garding  it  rather  in  the  light  of  a  challenge. 

"  I'd  loike  well  enow  to  ha'  yo*  change  it,"  he 
said,  "  but  my  coat  is  na  o'  th'  turnin'  web.  I 
mun  ha'  my  say  about  things  —  gentry  or  no 
gentry."  And  his  wrinkled  old  visage  expressed 
so  crabbed  a  determination  that  Mr.  Haviland 
laughed  outright. 

"  Oh  !  don't  misunderstand  me,"  he  said,  "  stick 


i8o       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

to  your  party,  Craddock.  We  will  try  to  agree, 
for  Miss  Barholm's  sake.  I  will  leave  you  to  your 
opinion,  and  you  will  leave  me  to  mine — even  a 
Member  of  Parliament  has  a  right  to  an  opinion, 
you  know,  if  he  doesn't  intrude  it  upon  the  pub 
lic  too  much." 

Craddock  went  home  in  a  mollified  frame  of 
mind.  He  felt  that  he  had  gained  his  point  and 
held  his  ground,  and  he  respected  himself  accord 
ingly.  He  felt  too  that  his  associates  had  ad 
ditional  right  to  respect  him.  It  was  their  ground 
too,  and  he  had  held  it  for  them  as  well  as  for 
himself.  He  stopped  at  The  Crown  for  his  mid 
day  glass  of  ale ;  and  his  self-satisfaction  was  so 
evident  that  his  friends  observed  it,  and  re 
marked  among  themselves  that  "  th'  owd  lad  wur 
pickin'  up  his  crumbs  a  bit." 

"  Yo're  lookin'  graidely  to-day,  Sammy,"  said 
one. 

"  I'm  feelin*  a  trifle  graidelier  than  I  ha'  done," 
he  answered,  oracularly.  "  Things  is  lookin'  up." 

"  I'm  main  glad  to  hear  it.     Tell  us  as  how." 

"  Well," — with  studied  indifference, — "  it's  noan 
so  great  luck  i'  comparison,  but  it's  summat  to  be 
thankfu'  fur  to  a  mon  as  is  down  i'  th'  world.  I've 
getten  the  lodge-keeper's  place  at  Mr.  Havi- 
land's." 

"  Tha'  nivver  says !  Who'd  a'  thowt  it  ?  How 
ivver  did  that  coom  about?  " 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S       181 

"  Friends  i'  coort,"  with  dignity.  "  Friends  i' 
coort.  Hond  me  that  jug  o'  ale,  Tummy.  Havi- 
land's  a  mon  o'  discretion,  if  he  is  a  Member  o' 
Parlyment.  We've  had  quoite  a  friendly  chat 
this  mornin'  as  we  set  i'  th'  loibery  together.  He 
is  na  so  bad  i'  his  polly tics  after  aw's  said  an*  done. 
He'll  do,  upo'  th'  whole." 

"  Yo'  stood  up  to  him  free  enow,  I  warrant," 
said  Tummy.  "  Th'  gentle  folk  dunnot  often  hear 
sich  free  speakin'  as  yo'  gi'  'em,  Sammy." 

"  Well,  I  had  to  be  a  bit  indypendent ;  it  wur 
nat'ral.  It  would  na  ha'  done  to  ha'  turnt  soft,  if 
he  wur  th'  mester  an'  me  th'  mon.  But  he's  a 
mon  o'  sense,  as  I  say,  an'  he  wur  civil  enow,  an' 
friendly  enow.  He's  getten  gumption  to  see  as 
pollytics  is  pollytics.  I'll  tell  yo'  what,  lads,  I'm 
comin*  to  th'  opinion  as  happen  theer's  more  sense 
i'  some  o'  th'  gentry  than  we  gi'  em  credit  fur ; 
they  ha'  not  mich  but  book  larnin  i'  their  heads, 
it's  true,  but  they're  noan  so  bad — some  on  'em — 
if  yo're  charytable  wi'  'em." 

"  Who  was  thy  friend  i'  coort,  Sammy  ?  "  was 
asked  next. 

Sammy's  fist  went  down  upon  the  table  with  a 
force  which  made  the  mugs  dance  and  rattle. 

"  Now  tha'rt  comin'  to  the  meat  i'  th'  egg,"  he 
said.  "  Who  should  tha  think  it  wur  'at  had  th' 
good-will  an  th'  head  to  tak'  th'  business  i' 
hond?" 


182       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

"  It  ud  be  hard  to  say." 

"  Why,  it  wur  that  little  lass  o'  th'  owd  Parsen's 
again.  Dom'd  if  she  wunnot  run  aw  Riggan  i'  a 
twelvemonth.  I  dunnot  know  wheer  she  getten 
her  head-fillin'  fro'  unless  she  robbed  th'  owd  Par 
son,  an'  left  his  nob  standin'  empty.  Happen 
that's  what's  up  wi'  th'  owd  chap." 


CHAPTER  XXI 
Derrick's  Question 

DERRICK  had  had  a  great  deal  to  think  about  of 
late.  Affairs  at  the  mines  had  been  troublesome, 
as  usual,  and  he  had  been  often  irritated  by  the 
stupidity  of  the  men  who  were  in  authority  over 
him.  He  began  to  feel,  moreover,  that  an  almost 
impalpable  barrier  had  sprung  up  between  him. 
self  and  his  nearest  friend.  When  he  came  to 
face  the  matter,  he  was  obliged  to  acknowledge 
to  himself  that  there  were  things  he  had  kept 
from  Grace,  though  it  had  been  without  any  pos 
itive  intention  of  concealment.  And,  perhaps, 
being  the  sensitive  fellow  he  had  called  him, 
Grace  had  felt  that  there  was  something  behind 
his  occasional  abstraction  and  silence,  and  had 
shrunk  within  himself,  feeling  a  trifle  hurt  at 
Derrick's  want  of  frankness  and  confidence. 

Hardly  a  day  passed  in  which  he  did  not  spend 
some  short  time  in  the  society  of  his  Pythias. 
He  rarely  passed  his  lodgings  without  dropping 
in,  and,  to-night,  he  turned  in  on  his  way  from 
the  office,  and  fell  upon  Grace  hard  at  work  over 
a  volume  of  theology. 


184       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

"  Lay  your  book  aside,"  he  said  to  him.  "  I 
want  to  gossip  this  evening-,  old  fellow." 

Grace  closed  his  book  and  came  to  his  usual 
seat,  smiling  affectionately.  There  was  a  sugges 
tion  of  feminine  affectionateness  in  his  bearing 
toward  his  friend. 

"  Gossip,"  he  remarked.  "  The  word  gos 
sip " 

"  Oh,"  put  in  Derrick,  "  it's  a  woman's  word ;  but 
I  am  in  a  womanish  sort  of  humor.  I  am  going 
to  be — I  suppose,  one  might  say — confidential." 

The  Reverend  Paul  reddened  a  little  but  as 
Derrick  rather  avoided  looking  at  him  he  did  not 
observe  the  fact. 

"  Grace,"  he  said,  after  a  silence,  "  I  have  a  sort 
of  confession  to  make.  I  am  in  a  difficulty,  and  I 
rather  blame  myself  for  not  having  come  to  you 
before." 

"  Don't  blame  yourself,"  said  the  Curate,  faintly. 
"  You — you  are  not  to  blame." 

Then  Derrick  glanced  up  at  him  quickly.  This 
sounded  so  significant  of  some  previous  knowl 
edge  of  his  trouble,  that  he  was  taken  aback. 
He  could  not  quite  account  for  it. 

"  What !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Is  it  possible  that 
you  have  guessed  it  already  ?  " 

"  I  have  thought  so — sometimes  I  have  thought 
so — though  I  feel  as  if  I  ought  almost  to  ask 
your  pardon  for  going  so  far." 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S        185 

Grace  had  but  one  thought  as  he  spoke.  His 
friend's  trouble  meant  his  friend's  honor  and  re 
gard  for  himself.  It  was  for  his  sake  that  Der 
rick  was  hesitating  on  the  brink  of  a  happy  love 
—unselfishly  fearing  for  him.  He  knew  the 
young  man's  impetuous  generosity,  and  saw  how 
under  the  circumstances,  it  might  involve  him. 
Loving  Anice  Barholm  with  the  full  strength  of  a 
strong  nature,  Derrick  was  generous  enough  still 
to  shrink  from  his  prospect  of  success  with  the 
woman  his  friend  had  failed  to  win. 

Derrick  flung  himself  back  in  his  chair  with  a 
sigh.  He  was  thinking,  with  secret  irritation, 
that  he  must  have  felt  even  more  than  he  had 
acknowledged  to  himself  since  he  had  in  all  un 
consciousness,  confessed  so  much. 

"  You  have  saved  me  the  trouble  of  putting 
into  words  a  feeling  I  have  not  words  to  ex 
plain,"  he  said.  "  Perhaps  that  is  the  reason  why 
I  have  not  spoken  openly  before.  Grace,"  - 
abruptly, — "  I  have  fancied  there  was  a  cloud 
between  us." 

"  Between  us ! "  said  Grace,  eagerly  and  warmly. 
"  No,  no  !  That  was  a  poor  fancy  indeed  ;  I  could 
not  bear  that." 

"  Nor  I,"  impetuously.  "  But  I  cannot  be  ex 
plicit  even  now,  Grace — even  my  thoughts  are 
not  explicit.  I  have  been  bewildered  and — yes, 
amazed — amazed  at  finding  that  I  had  gone  so  far 


186       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

without  knowing  it.  Surely  there  never  was  a 
passion  —  if  it  is  really  a  passion  —  that  had  so 
little  to  feed  upon." 

"  So  little  !  "  echoed  Grace. 

Derrick  got  up  and  began  to  walk  across  the 
floor. 

"  I  have  nothing — nothing,  and  I  am  beset  on 
every  side." 

There  was  something  extraordinary  in  the 
blindness  of  a  man  with  an  absorbing  passion. 
Absorbed  by  his  passion  for  one  woman,  Grace 
was  blind  to  the  greatest  of  inconsistencies  in  his 
friend's  speech  and  manner.  Absorbed  in  his 
passion  for  another  woman,  Derrick  forgot  for 
the  hour  everything  concerning  his  friend's  love 
for  Anice  Barholm. 

Suddenly  he  paused  in  his  career  across  the 
room. 

"  Grace,"  he  said,  "  I  cannot  trust  myself ;  but 
I  can  trust  you,  I  cannot  be  unselfish  in  this — you 
can.  Tell  me  what  I  am  to  do — answer  me  this 
question,  though  God  knows,  it  would  be  a  hard 
one  for  any  man  to  answer.  Perhaps  I  ought  not 
to  ask  it  —  perhaps  I  ought  to  have  decision 
enough  to  answer  it  myself  without  troubling 
you.  But  how  can  I  ?  And  you  who  are  so 
true  to  yourself  and  to  me  in  other  things, 
will  be  true  in  this  I  know.  This  feeling  is 
stronger  than  all  else  —  so  strong  that  I  have 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S        187 

feared  and  failed  to  comprehend  it.  I  had  not 
even  thought  of  it  until  it  came  upon  me  with 
fearful  force,  and  I  am  conscious  that  it  has  not 
reached  its  height  yet.  It  is  not  an  ignoble  pas. 
sion,  I  know.  How  could  a  passion  for  such  a 
creature  be  ignoble  ?  And  yet  again,  there  have 
been  times  when  I  have  felt  that  perhaps  it  was 
best  to  struggle  against  it.  I  am  beset  on  every 
side,  as  I  have  said,  and  I  appeal  to  you.  Ought 
love  to  be  stronger  than  all  else  ?  I  used  to  tell 
myself  so,  before  it  came  upon  me — and  now  I 
can  only  wonder  at  myself  and  tremble  to  find 
that  I  have  grown  weak." 

God  knows  it  was  a  hard  question  he  had  asked 
of  the  man  who  loved  him  ;  but  this  man  did  not 
hesitate  to  answer  it  as  freely  as  if  he  had  had  no 
thought  that  he  was  signing  the  death-warrant  of 
all  hopes  for  himself.  Grace  went  to  him  and  laid 
a  hand  upon  his  broad  shoulder. 

"  Come,  sit  down  and  I  will  tell  you,"  he  said, 
with  a  pallid  face. 

Derrick  obeyed  his  gentle  touch  with  a  faint 
smile. 

"  I  am  too  fiery  and  tempestuous,  and  you 
want  to  cool  me,"  he  said.  "  You  are  as  gentle  as 
a  woman,  Grace." 

The  Curate  standing  up  before  him,  a  slight, 
not  at  all  heroic  figure  in  his  well  worn,  almost 
threadbare  garments,  smiled  in  return. 


i88       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

"  I  want  to  answer  your  question,"  he  said,  "  and 
my  answer  is  this :  When  a  man  loves  a  woman 
wholly,  truly,  purely,  and  to  her  highest  honor, — 
such  a  love  is  the  highest  and  noblest  thing  in  this 
world,  and  nothing  should  lead  to  its  sacrifice, — 
no  ambition,  no  hope,  no  friendship." 


CHAPTER   XXII 

Master  LandseJl's  Son 

"  I  DUNNOT  know  what  to  mak'  on  her,"  Joan 
said  to  Anice,  speaking  of  Liz.  "  Sometimes  she 
is  i'  sich  sperrits  that  she's  fairly  flighty,  an'  then 
agen,  she's  aw  fretted  an*  crossed  with  ivvery- 
thing.  Th'  choild  seems  to  worrit  her  to  death." 

"  That  lass  o'  Lowrie's  has  made  a  bad  bargain, 
i'  takin'  up  wi'  that  wench,"  said  a  townswoman 
to  Grace.  "  She's  noan  one  o'  th'  soart  as  '11  keep 
straight.  She's  as  shallow  as  a  brook  i'  midsum 
mer.  What's  she  doin'  leavin'  th'  young  un  to 
Joan,  and  gaddin'  about  wi'  ribbons  i'  her  bon 
net  ?  Some  lasses  would  na  ha'  th'  heart  to  show 
theirsens." 

The  truth  was  that  the  poor  weak  child  was 
struggling  feebly  in  deep  water  again.  She  had 
not  thought  of  danger.  She  had  only  been  tired 
of  the  monotony  of  her  existence,  and  had  longed 
for  a  change.  If  she  had  seen  the  end  she  would 
have  shrunk  from  it  before  she  had  taken  her  first 
step.  She  wanted  no  more  trouble  and  shame, 
she  only  wanted  variety  and  excitement. 

She  was  going  down  a  by-lane  leading  to  the 


190       THAT  LASS  O'   LOWRIE'S 

Maxy's  cottage,  and  was  hurrying  through  the 
twilight,  when  she  brushed  against  a  man  who 
was  lounging  carelessly  along  the  path,  smoking 
a  cigar,  and  evidently  enjoying  the  balmy  cool 
ness  of  the  summer  evening.  It  was  just  light 
enough  for  her  to  see  that  this  person  was  well- 
dressed,  and  young,  and  with  a  certain  lazily 
graceful  way  of  moving,  and  it  was  just  light 
enough  for  the  man  to  see  that  the  half-frightened 
face  she  lifted  was  pretty  and  youthful.  But, 
having  seen  this  much,  he  must  surely  have  rec 
ognized  more,  for  he  made  a  quick  backward 
step. 

"  Liz ! "  he  said.  "  Why,  Liz,  my  girl ! " 
And  Liz  stood  still.  She  stood  still,  because, 
for  the  moment,  she  lost  the  power  of  motion. 
Her  heart  gave  a  great  wild  leap,  and,  in  a  min 
ute  more,  she  was  trembling  all  over  with  a 
strange,  dreadful  emotion.  It  seemed  as  if  long, 
terrible  months  were  blotted  out,  and  she  was 
looking  into  her  cruel  lover's  face,  as  she  had 
looked  at  it  last.  It  was  the  man  who  had 
brought  her  to  her  greatest  happiness  and  her 
deepest  pain  and  misery.  She  could  not  speak 
at  first;  but  soon  she  broke  into  a  passion  of 
tears.  It  evidently  made  the  young  man  uncom 
fortable — perhaps  it  touched  him  a  little.  Ralph 
Landsell's  nature  was  not  unlike  Liz's  own.  He 
was  invariably  swayed  by  the  passing  cir- 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S        191 

cumstance, — only,  perhaps,  he  was  a  trifle  more 
easily  moved  by  an  evil  impulse  than  a  good  one. 
The  beauty  of  the  girl's  tearful  face,  too,  over 
balanced  his  first  feeling  of  irritation  at  seeing 
her  and  finding  that  he  was  in  a  difficult  position. 
Then  he  did  not  want  her  to  run  away  and  per- 
haps  betray  him  in  her  agitation,  so  he  put  out 
his  hand  and  laid  it  on  her  shoulder. 

"  Hush,"  he  said.  "  Don't  cry.  What  a  poor 
little  goose  you  are.  Somebody  will  hear  you." 

The  girl  made  an  effort  to  free  herself  from  his 
detaining  hand,  but  it  was  useless.  Light  as  his 
grasp  was,  it  held  her. 

"  Let  me  a-be,"  she  cried,  sobbing  petulantly. 
"  Yo'  ha'  no  reet  to  howd  me.  Yo'  were  ready 
enow  to  let  me  go  when — when  I  wur  i'  trouble." 

"  Trouble  !  "  he  repeated  after  her.  "  Wasn't  I 
in  trouble,  too  ?  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  did 
not  know  what  a  mess  I  was  in?  I'll  own  it 
looked  rather  shabby,  Liz,  but  I  was  obliged  to 
bolt  as  I  did.  I  hadn't  time  to  stay  and  explain. 
The  governor  was  down  on  us,  and  there'd  have 
been  an  awful  row.  Don't  be  hard  on  a  fellow, 
Lizzie.  You're — you're  too  nice  a  little  girl  to  be 
hard  on  a  fellow." 

But  Liz  would  not  listen. 

"Yo'  went  away  an'  left  me  wi'out  a  word," 
she  said  ;  "  yo'  went  away  an'  left  me  to  tak'  care 
o'  mysen  when  I  could  na  do  it,  an*  had  na 


192       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

strength  to  howd  up  agen  th'  world.  I  wur 
turned  out  o'  house  an'  home,  an'  if  it  had  na 
been  fur  th'  hospytal,  I  might  ha'  deed  i'  th' 
street.  Let  me  go.  I  dunnot  want  to  ha'  awt  to 
do  wi'  yo'.  I  nivver  wanted  to  see  yore  face 
agen.  Leave  me  a-be.  It's  ower  now,  an'  I  dun- 
not  want  to  get  into  trouble  agen." 

He  drew  his  hand  away,  biting  his  lip  and 
frowning  boyishly.  He  had  been  as  fond  of  Liz 
as  such  a  man  could  be.  But  she  had  been  a 
trouble  to  him  in  the  end,  and  he  had  barely  es 
caped,  through  his  cowardly  flight,  from  being 
openly  disgraced  and  visited  by  his  father's 
wrath. 

"  If  you  had  not  gone  away  in  such  a  hurry, 
you  would  have  found  that  I  did  not  mean  to 
treat  you  so  badly  after  all,"  he  said.  "  I  wrote 
to  you  and  sent  you  money,  and  told  you  why  I 
was  obliged  to  leave  you  for  the  time,  but  you 
were  gone,  and  the  letter  was  returned  to  me.  I 
was  not  so  much  to  blame." 

"  Th'  blame  did  na  fa'  on  yo',"  said  Liz.  "  I 
tell  yo'  I  wur  turnt  out,  but — it — it  does  na  mat 
ter  now,"  with  a  sob. 

Now  that  she  was  out  of  his  reach,  he  discov 
ered  that  she  had  not  lost  all  her  old  attractions 
for  him.  She  was  prettier  than  ever, — the  shawl 
had  slipped  from  her  curly  hair,  the  tears  in  her 
eyes  made  them  look  large  and  soft,  and  gave  her 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S        193 

face  an  expression  of  most  pathetic  helplessness, 
— and  he  really  felt  that  he  would  like  to  defend, 
if  not  clear  himself.  So,  when  she  made  a  move 
ment  as  if  to  leave  him,  he  was  positively  anxious 
to  detain  her. 

"You  are  not  going?"  he  said.  "You  won't 
leave  a  fellow  in  this  way,  'Lizzie  ?  " 

The  old  tone,  half  caressing,  half  reproachful, 
was  harder  for  the  girl  to  withstand  than  a 
stronger  will  could  comprehend.  It  brought 
back  so  much  to  her, — those  first  bright  days,  her 
poor,  brief  little  reign,  her  childish  pleasures,  his 
professed  love  for  her,  all  her  lost  delight.  If  she 
had  been  deliberately  bad,  she  would  have  given 
way  that  instant,  knowing  that  she  was  trifling  on 
the  brink  of  sin  once  more.  But  she  was  not  bad, 
only  emotional,  weak  and  wavering.  The  tone 
held  her  one  moment  and  then  she  burst  into 
fresh  tears. 

"  I  wunnot  listen  to  yo',"  she  cried.  "  I  wunnot 
listen  to  yo'.  I  wunnot — I  wunnot,"  and  before 
he  had  time  to  utter  another  word,  she  had 
turned  and  fled  down  the  lane  back  toward  Joan's 
cottage,  like  some  hunted  creature  fleeing  for 
life. 

Joan,   sitting   alone,  rose   in   alarm,   when   she 
burst  open  the  door  and  rushed   in.      She   was 
quivering  from  head  to  foot,  panting  for  breath, 
and  the  tears  were  wet  upon  her  cheeks. 
'3 


194       THAT   LASS  O'   LOWRIE'S 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  cried  Joan.  "  Lizzie,  my  lass, 
what  ails  yo'  ?  " 

She  threw  herself  down  upon  the  floor  and  hid 
her  face  in  the  folds  of  Joan's  dress. 

"  I — ha' — I  ha'  seed  a  ghost,  or — summat,"  she 
panted  and  whimpered.  "  I — I  met  summat  as 
feart  me." 

"  Let  me  go  and  look  what  it  wur,"  said  Joan. 
"  Was  it  i'  th*  lane  ?  Tha  art  tremblin'  aw  o'er, 
Lizzie." 

But  Liz  only  clung  to  her  more  closely. 

"  Nay — nay,"  she  protested.  "  Tha  shall  na  go. 
I'm  feart  to  be  left — an' — an'  I  dunnot  want  yo' 
to  go.  Dunnot  go,  Joan,  dunnot." 

And  Joan  was  fain  to  remain. 

She  did  not  go  out  into  the  village  for  several 
days  after  this,  Joan  observed.  She  stayed  at 
home  and  did  not  even  leave  the  cottage.  She 
was  not  like  herself,  either.  Up  to  that  time  she 
had  seemed  to  be  forgetting  her  trouble,  and 
gradually  slipping  back  into  the  enjoyments  she 
had  known  before  she  had  gone  away.  Now  a 
cloud  seemed  to  be  upon  her.  She  was  rest 
less  and  nervous,  or  listless  and  unhappy.  She 
was  easily  startled,  and  now  and  then  Joan 
fancied  that  she  was  expecting  something  un 
usual  to  happen.  She  lost  color  and  appetite, 
and  the  child's  presence  troubled  her  more 
than  usual.  Once,  when  it  set  up  a  sudden  cry, 


THAT  LASS  O'  LOWRIE'S       195 

she  started,  and  the  next  moment  burst  into 
tears. 

"  Why,  Liz !  "  said  Joan,  almost  tenderly.  "  Yo' 
mun  be  ailin',  or  yo'  hannot  getten  o'er  yo're 
fright  yet.  Yo're  not  yoresen  at  aw.  What  a 
simple  little  lass  yo'  are  to  be  feart  by  a  boggart 
i'  that  way." 

"  I  dunnot  know  what's  the  matter  wi'  me," 
said  Liz,  "  I  dunnot  feel  reet,  somehow.  Happen 
I  shall  get  o'er  it  i'  toime." 

But  though  she  recovered  herself  somewhat, 
she  was  not  the  same  girl  again.  And  this  change 
in  her  it  was  that  made  Joan  open  her  heart  to 
Anice.  She  saw  that  something  was  wrong,  and 
noted  a  new  influence  at  work  even  after  the  girl 
began  to  go  out  again  and  resume  her  visits  to 
her  acquaintances.  Then,  alternating  with  fretful 
listlessness,  were  tremulous  high  spirits  and  fev 
erish  fits  of  gayety. 

There  came  a  day,  however,  when  Joan  gained 
a  clue  to  the  meaning  of  this  change,  though 
never  from  her  first  recognition  of  it  until  the 
end  did  she  comprehend  it  fully.  Perhaps  she 
was  wholly  unconscious  of  what  narrower 
natures  experience.  Then,  too,  she  had  little 
opportunity  for  hearing  gossip.  She  had  no 
visitors,  and  she  was  kept  much  at  home  with  the 
child,  who  was  not  healthy,  and  who,  during  the 
summer  months,  was  constantly  feeble  and  ailing. 


196       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

Grace,  hearing  nothing  more  after  the  first  hint 
of  suspicion,  was  so  far  relieved  that  he  thought 
it  best  to  spare  Joan  the  pain  of  being  stung 
by  it. 

But  there  came  a  piece  of  news  to  Joan  that 
troubled  her. 

"  Theer's  a  young  sprig  o'  one  o'  th'  managers 
stayin'  at  th'  '  Queen's  Arms,'  "  remarked  a  pit 
woman  one  morning.  "  He's  a  foine  young  chap, 
too — dresses  up  loike  a  tailor's  dummy,  an'  looks 
as  if  he'd  stepped  reet  square  out  o'  a  bandbox. 
He's  a  son  o'  owd  Landsell's." 

Joan  stopped  a  moment  at  her  work. 

•"Are  yo'  sure  o'  that?"  she  asked,  anxiously. 

J"  Sure  he's  Mester  Landsell's  son  ?  Aye,  to  be 
sure  it's  him.  My  mester  towd  me  hissen." 

This  was  Liz's  trouble,  then. 

At  noon  Joan  went  home  full  of  self-reproach 
because  sometimes  her  patience  had  failed  her. 
Liz  looked  up  with  traces  of  tears  in  her  eyes, 
when  Joan  came  in.  Joan  did  not  hesitate.  She 
only  thought  of  giving  her  comfort.  She  went 
and  sat  down  in  a  chair  near  by — she  drew  the 
curly  head  down  upon  her  lap,  and  laid  her  hand 
on  it  caressingly. 

"  "Lizzie,  lass,"  she  said  ;  "  yo'  need  na  ha'  been 
afeard  to  tell  me." 

There  was  a  quick  little  pant  from  Liz,  and 
then  stillness. 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S        197 

"  I  heard  about  it  to-day,"  Joan  went  on,  "  an'  I 
did  na  wonder  as  yo'  wur  full  o*  trouble.  It 
brings  it  back,  Liz,  I  dare  say." 

The  pant  became  a  sob — the  sob  broke  into  a 
low  cry. 

"Oh,  Joan!  Joan!  dunnot  blame  me — dunnot. 
It  wur  na  my  fault  as  he  coom,  an' — an'  I  canna 
bear  it." 

Even  then  Joan  had  no  suspicion.  To  her 
mind  it  was  quite  natural  that  such  a  cry  of  pain 
should  be  wrung  from  the  weak  heart.  Her 
hand  lost  its  steadiness  as  she  touched  the  soft, 
tangled  hair  more  tenderly  than  before. 

"  He  wur  th'  ghost  as  yo'  seed  i'  th'  lane,"  she 
said.  "Wurnahe?" 

"  Aye,"  wept  Liz,  "  he  wur,  an'  I  dare  na  tell 
yo'.  It  seemit  loike  it  tuk  away  my  breath,  an' 
aw  my  heart  owt  o'  me.  Nivver  yo'  blame  me, 
Joan — nivver  yo'  be  hard  on  me — ivverything 
else  is  hard  enow.  I  thowt  I  wur  safe  wi'  yo' — I 
did  fur  sure." 

"  An'  yo'  are  safe,"  Joan  answered.  "  Dost  tha* 
think  I  would  turn  agen  thee?  Nay,  lass;  tha'rt 
as  safe  as  th'  choild  is,  when  I  hold  it  i'  my  breast. 
I  ha'  a  pain  o'  my  own,  Liz,  as  '11  nivver  heal,  an' 
I'd  loike  to  know  as  I'd  held  out  my  hond  to 
them  as  theer  is  healin'  fur.  I'd  thank  God  fur  th' 
chance — poor  lass — poor  lass — poor  lass ! "  And 
she  bent  down  and  kissed  her  again  and  again. 


CHAPTER   XX/tt 

"  Cannybles  H 

THE  night  school  gained  ground  steadily.  The 
number  of  scholars  was  constantly  on  the  increase, 
so  much  so,  indeed,  that  Grace  had  his  hands 
inconveniently  full. 

"They  have  dull  natures,  these  people,"  said 
the  Reverend  Harold ;  "  and  in  the  rare  cases 
where  they  are  not  dull,  they  are  stubborn.  Ab 
solutely,  I  find  it  quite  trying  to  face  them  at 
times,  and  it  is  not  my  fortune  to  find  it  difficult 
to  reach  people,  as  a  rule.  They  seem  to  have 
made  up  their  minds  beforehand  to  resent  what  I 
am  going  to  say.  It  is  most  unpleasant.  Grace 
has  been  working  among  them  so  long  that,  I 
suppose,  they  are  used  to  his  methods;  he  has 
learned  to  place  himself  on  a  level  with  them,  so 
to  speak.  I  notice  they  listen  to,  and  seem  to 
understand  him.  The  fact  is,  I  have  an  idea  that 
that  sort  of  thing  is  Grace's  forte.  He  is  not  a 
brilliant  fellow,  and  will  never  make  any  par 
ticular  mark,  but  he  has  an  odd  perseverance 
which  carries  him  along  with  a  certain  class. 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S        199 

Riggan  suits  him,  I  think.  He  has  dropped  into 
the  right  groove." 

Jud  Bates  and  "  th'  best  tarrier  i'  Riggan  "  were 
among  the  most  faithful  attendants.  The  lad's 
fancy  for  Anice  had  extended  to  Grace.  Grace's 
friendly  toleration  of  Nib  had  done  much  for  him. 
Nib  always  appeared  with  his  master,  and  his 
manner  was  as  composed  and  decorous  as  if  rats 
were  subjects  foreign  to  his  meditations.  His 
part  it  was  to  lie  at  Jud's  feet,  his  nose  between 
his  paws,  his  eyes  twinkling  sagaciously  behind 
his  shaggy  eyebrows,  while  occasionally,  as  a 
token  of  approval,  he  wagged  his  tail.  Once 
or  twice,  during  a  fitful  slumber,  he  had  been 
known  to  give  vent  to  his  feelings  in  a  sharp 
bark,  but  he  never  failed  to  awaken  immediate 
ly,  with  every  appearance  of  the  deepest  abase 
ment  and  confusion  at  the  unconscious  trans 
gression. 

During  a  visit  to  the  Rectory  one  day,  Jud's 
eyes  fell  upon  a  book  which  lay  on  Anice's  table. 
It  was  full  of  pictures — illustrations  depicting  the 
adventures  and  vicissitudes  of  a  fortunate  unfortu 
nate,  whose  desert  island  has  been  the  paradise  of 
thousands ;  whose  goat-skin  habiliments  have  been 
more  worthy  of  envy  than  kingly  purple;  whose 
hairy  cap  has  been  more  significant  of  monarchy 
than  any  crown.  For  the  man  who  wore  these 
savage  garments  has  reigned  supreme  in  realms 


200       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

of  romance,  known  only  in  their  first  beauty  to 
boyhood's  ecstatic  belief. 

Jud  put  out  his  hand,  and  drawing  the  gold 
and  crimson  snare  toward  him,  opened  it.  When 
Anice  came  into  the  room  she  found  him  poring 
over  it.  His  ragged  cap  lay  with  Nib,  at  his  feet, 
his  face  was  in  a  glow,  his  hair  was  pushed 
straight  up  on  his  head,  both  elbows  were  resting 
on  the  table.  He  was  spelling  his  way  labor, 
iously,  but  excitedly,  through  the  story  of  the 
foot-print  on  the  sand.  Anice  waited  a  moment, 
and  then  spoke : 

"  Jud,"  she  said,  "  when  you  can  read  I  will 
give  you  '  Robinson  Crusoe.' ' 

In  less  than  six  months  she  was  called  upon  to 
redeem  her  promise. 

This  occurred  a  few  weeks  after  Craddock  had 
been  established  at  the  lodge  at  the  Haviland 
gates.  The  day  Anice  gave  Jud  his  well-earned 
reward,  she  had  a  package  to  send  to  Mrs.  Crad 
dock,  and  when  the  boy  came  for  the  book,  she 
employed  him  as  a  messenger  to  the  park. 

"  If  you  will  take  these  things  to  Mrs.  Crad 
dock,  Jud,  I  shall  be  much  obliged,"  she  said  ; 
"  and  please  tell  her  that  I  will  drive  out  to  see 
her  to-morrow." 

Jud  accepted  the  mission  readily.  With  Nib 
at  his  heels  and  "  Robinson  Crusoe  "  under  his 
arm,  three  miles  were  a  trivial  matter.  He  trudged 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S       201 

off,  whistling  with  keen  delight.  As  he  went 
along  he  could  fortify  himself  with  an  occasional 
glance  at  the  hero  and  his  man  Friday.  What 
would  he  not  have  sacrificed  at  the  prospect  of 
being  cast  with  Nib  upon  a  desert  island  ? 

"  Owd  Sammy  "  sat  near  the  chimney-corner 
smoking  his  pipe,  and  making  severe  mental 
comments  upon  the  conduct  of  Parliament,  then 
in  session,  of  whose  erratic  proceedings  he  was 
reading  an  account  in  a  small  but  highly  seasoned 
newspaper.  Sammy  shook  his  head  ominously 
over  the  peppery  reports,  but  feeling  it  as  well 
to  reserve  his  opinions  for  a  select  audience  at 
The  Crown,  allowed  Mrs.  Craddock  to  perform 
her  household  tasks  unmolested. 

Hearing  Jud  at  the  door,  he  turned  his  head. 

"  It's  yo',  is  it  ?  "  he  said.  "  Tha  con  coom  in. 
What's  browten  ?  " 

"  Summat  fur  th'  missis  fro'  th'  Rectory,"  Jud 
answered,  producing  his  parcel ;  "  Miss  Anice 
sent  me  wi'  it." 

"  Tak'  it  to  th'  owd  lass,  then,"  said  Sammy. 
"Tak'  it  to  her.  Tha'lt  find  her  in  th'  back 
kitchen." 

Having  done  as  he  was  bidden,  Jud  came  back 
again  to  the  front  room.  Mrs.  Craddock  had  hos 
pitably  provided  him  with  a  huge  sandwich  of 
bread  and  cheese,  and  Nib  followed  him  with  ex 
pectant  eyes. 


202       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

"  Sit  thee  down,  lad,"  said  Sammy,  conde. 
scendingly.  "  Sit  thee  down,  tha'st  getten  a  walk 
both  afore  and  behind  thee.  What  book  'st  getten 
under  thy  arm?" 

Jud  regarded  the  volume  with  evident  pride 
and  exultation. 

"  It's  Robyson  Crusoe,  that  theer  is,"  he  an 
swered. 

Sammy  shook  his  head  dubiously. 

"  Dunnot  know  as  I  ivver  heerd  on  him.  He's 
noan  scripter,  is  he  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Jud,  repelling  the  insinuation 
stoutly  ;  "  he  is  na." 

"  Hond  him  over,  an'  let's  ha'  a  look  at  him." 

Jud  advanced. 

"  Theer's  picters  in  it,"  he  commented  eagerly. 
"  Theer's  one  at  th*  front.  That  theer  un,"  point 
ing  to  the  frontispiece,  "  that  theer's  him." 

Sammy  gave  it  a  sharp  glance,  then  another,  and 
then  held  the  book  at  arm's  length,  regarding 
Robinson's  goat-skin  habiliments  over  the  rims  of 
his  spectacles. 

"  Well,  I'm  dom'd,"  he  exclaimed.  "  I'm  dom'd, 
if  I  would  na  loike  to  see  that  chap  i'  Riggan  ! 
What's  th'  felly  getten  on  ?  " 

"  He's  dressed  i'  goat-skins.  He  wur  cast  upon 
a  desert  island,  an'  had  na  owt  else  to  wear." 

"  I  thowt  he  must  ha'  been  reduced  i'  circum 
stances,  or  he'd  nivver  ha'  turnt  out  i'  that  rig 


THAT   LASS  O'   LOWRIE'S       203 

'less  he  thowt  more  o'  comfort  than  appearances. 
What  wur  he  doin'  a-casting  hissen  on  a  desert 
island  ?  Wur  he  reet  i'  th'  upper  story  ?  " 

"  He  wur  shipwrecked,"  triumphantly.  "  Th' 
sea  drifted  him  to  th'  shore,  an'  he  built  hissen  a 
hut,  an'  gettin'  goats  an'  birds,  an' — an'  aw  sorts 
— an'' — it's  the  graideliest  book  tha  ivver  seed. 
Miss  Anice  gave  it  me." 

"  Has  she  read  it  hersen?  " 

"  Aye,  it  wur  her  as  tellt  me  most  on  it." 

Sammy  turned  the  volume  over,  and  looked  at 
the  back  of  it,  at  the  edges  of  the  leaves,  at  the 
gilt-lettered  title. 

"  I  would  na  be  surprised,"  he  observed  with 
oracular  amiability.  "  I  would  na  be  surprised — 
if  that's  th'  case — as  theer's  summat  in  it." 

"  That  as  I've  towd  thee  is  nowt  to  th'  rest  on 
it,"  answered  Jud  in  enthusiasm.  "  Theer's  a 
mon  ca'd  Friday,  an'  a  lot  o'  fellys  as  eats  each 
other — cannybles  they  ca'  'em " 

"  Look  tha  here,"  interposed  Craddock,  his  curi 
osity  and  interest  getting  the  better  of  him.  "  Sit 
thee  down  and  read  a  bit.  That's  something  as 
I  nivver  heard  on — cannybles  an'  th'  loike.  Pick 
thee  th'  place,  an'  let's  hear  summat  about  th' 
cannybles  if  tha  has  na  th'  toime  to  do  no  more." 

Jud  needed  no  second  invitation.  Sharing  the 
general  opinion  that  "  Owd  Sammy  "  was  a  man 
of  mark,  he  could  not  help  feeling  that  Crusoe 


204       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

was  complimented  by  his  attention.  He  picked 
out  his  place,  as  his  hearer  had  advised  him,  and 
plunged  into  the  details  of  the  cannibal  feast  with 
pride  and  determination.  Though  his  elocution 
may  have  been  of  a  style  peculiar  to  beginners 
and  his  pronunciation  occasionally  startling  in  its 
originality,  still  Sammy  gathered  the  gist  of  the 
story.  He  puffed  at  his  pipe  so  furiously  that 
the  foreign  gentleman's  turbaned  head  was  emp 
tied  with  amazing  rapidity,  and  it  was  necessary 
to  refill  it  two  or  three  times;  he  rubbed  his 
corduroy  knees  with  both  hands,  occasionally  he 
slapped  one  of  them  in  the  intensity  of  his  inter 
est,  and  when  Jud  stopped  he  could  only  express 
himself  in  his  usual  emphatic  formula — 

"  Well,  I  am  dom'd.  An'  tha  says,  as  th'  chap's 
name  wur  Robyson  ?  " 

"  Aye,  Robyson  Crusoe." 

"  Well,  I  mun  say,  as  I'd  ha'  loike  to  ha'  knowed 
him.  I  did  know  a  mon  by  th'  name  o'  Robyson 
onct,  but  it  could  na  ha'  been  him,  fur  he  wur  na 
mich  o'  a  chap.  If  he'd  a  bin  cast  o'  a  desert 
island,  he  would  na  had  th'  gumption  to  do  aw 
that  theer — Jem  Robyson  could  na.  It  could  na 
ha'  been  him — an'  besides,  he  could  na  ha'  writ  it 
out,  as  that  theer  felly's  done." 

There  was  a  pause,  in  which  Craddock  held  his 
pipe  in  his  hand  reflectively — shaking  his  head 
once  more. 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S      205 

"  Cannybles  an'  th'  loike  too,"  he  said.  "  Theer's 
a  soight  o'  things  as  a  mon  does  na  hear  on.  Why, 
/  nivver  heard  o'  cannybles  mysen,  an*  I  am  na 
considert  ignorant  by  th'  most  o'  foak."  Then, 
as  Jud  rose  to  go,  "  Art  tha  fur  goin'?  "  he  asked. 
"  Well,  I  mun  say  as  I'd  loike  to  hear  summat 
more  about  Robyson;  but,  if  tha  mun  go,  tha 
mun,  I  suppose.  Sithee  here,  could  tha  coom 
again  an'  bring  him  wi'  thee?  " 

"  I  mowt ;  I  dunna  moind  the  walk." 

"  Then  thee  do  it,"  getting  up  to  accompany 
him  to  the  gates.  "  An'  I'll  gi'e  thee  a  copper 
now  an'  then  to  pay  thee.  Theer's  summat 
i'  a  book  o'  that  soart.  Coom  thee  again  as 
soon  as  tha  con,  an'  we'll  go  on  wi'  the  canny 
bles." 

"  What's  th'  lad  been  readin'  to  thee,  Sammy  ?  " 
asked  Mrs.  Craddock  entering  the  room,  after 
Jud  had  taken  his  departure. 

"  A  bit  o'  litterytoor.  I  dunnot  know  as  tha'd 
know  what  th'  book  wur,  if  I  towd  thee.  Tha 
nivver  wur  mich  o'  a  hand  at  litterytoor.  He  wur 
readin'  Robyson  Crusoe." 

"  Not  a  tract,  sure-ly  ?  " 

"  Nay,  that  it  wur  na !  It  wur  th'  dairy  o'  a 
mon  who  wur  cast  upo'  a  desert  island  i'  th'  midst 
o'  cannybles." 

"  The  dairy  ?  " 

*'  Nay,  lass,  nay,"  testily,  "  not  i*  th'  sense  yo* 


2o6       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

mean.  Th'  dairy  wur  o*  th'  litterairy  soart.  He 
wur  a  litterairy  mon." 

"  Cannybles  an'  th'  loike,"  Sammy  said  to  him 
self  several  times  during  the  evening.  "  Canny 
bles  an'  th'  loike.  Theer's  a  power  o'  things  i'  th' 
universe." 

He  took  his  pipe  after  supper  and  went  out  for 
a  stroll.  Mental  activity  made  him  restless.  The 
night  was  a  bright  one.  A  yellow  harvest  moon 
was  rising  slowly  above  the  tree-tops,  and  cast 
ing  a  mellow  light  upon  the  road  stretching 
out  before  him.  He  passed  through  the  gates 
and  down  the  road  at  a  leisurely  pace,  and 
had  walked  a  hundred  yards  or  so,  when  he 
caught  sight  of  two  figures  approaching  him 
— a  girl  and  a  man,  so  absorbed  that  they  evi 
dently  had  not  noticed  him.  The  girl  was  of 
light  and  youthful  figure,  and  the  little  old  red 
shawl  she  wore  over  her  head  was  pushed 
aside,  and  showed  curly  hair  lying  upon  her 
brow.  It  was  plain  that  she  was  uneasy  or 
frightened,  for,  as  soon  as  she  was  near  enough, 
her  voice  reached  him  in  a  tone  of  frightened 
protest. 

"  Oh,  dunnot ! "  she  was  saying,  "  I  conna  bear 
it.  I  dunnot  want  to  hear  yo',  an' — an'  I  will  na. 
Yo'  moight  ha'  let  me  be.  I  dunnot  believe  yo'. 
Let  me  go  whoam.  I'll  nivver  coom  again,"  and 
then  she  broke  out  crying. 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S      207 

Craddock  looked  after  them  as  they  passed  from 
sight. 

"  Theer's  trouble  there,"  he  said,  eagerly.  "  A 
working  lass,  an'  a  mon  i'  gentlemen's  cloas.  Dom 
sich  loike  chaps,  say  I.  What  would  they  think 
if  workin'  men  ud  coom  meddlin'  wi'  theer  lasses? 
I  wish  I'd  had  more  toime  to  see  th'  wench's 
face." 


CHAPTER.  XXIV 
Dan  Lowrie's  Return 

NOT  a  pleasant  road  to  travel  at  any  time — the 
high  road  to  Riggan,  it  was  certainly  at  its  worst 
to-night. 

Between  twelve  and  one  o'clock,  the  rain  which 
had  been  pouring  down  steadily  with  true  Eng 
lish  pertinacity  for  two  days,  was  gradually  pass 
ing  into  a  drizzle  still  more  unpleasant, — a  drizzle 
that  soaked  into  the  already  soaked  clay,  that 
made  the  mud  more  slippery,  that  penetrated  a 
man's  clothing  and  beat  softly  but  irritatingly 
against  his  face,  and  dripped  from  his  hair  and 
hat  down  upon  his  neck,  however  well  he  might 
imagine  himself  protected  by  his  outside  wrap 
pings.  But,  if  he  was  a  common  traveller — a 
rough  tramp  or  laborer,  who  was  not  pro 
tected  from  it  at  all,  it  could  not  fail  to  annoy 
him  still  more,  and  consequently  to  affect  his 
temper. 

At  the  hour  I  have  named,  such  a  traveller 
was  making  his  way  through  the  mire  and  drizzle 
toward  Riggan, — a  tramp  in  mud-splashed  cordu 
roy  and  with  the  regulation  handkerchief  bundle 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S       209 

tied  to  the  thick  stick  which  he  carried  over  his 
shoulder. 

"  Dom  th'  rain ; — dom  th'  road,"  he  said. 

It  was  not  alone  the  state  of  the  weather  that 
put  him  out  of  humor. 

"  Th'  lass,"  he  went  on.  "  Dom  her  handsome 
face.  Goin'  agin  a  chap — workin'  agin  him,  an' 
settin'  hersen  i'  his  road.  Blast  me,"  grinding  his 
teeth — "  Blast  me  if  I  dunnot  ha'  it  out  wi'  her !  " 

So  cursing,  and  alternating  his  curses  with  rag 
ing  silence,  he  trudged  on  his  way  until  four 
o'clock,  when  he  was  in  sight  of  the  cottage  upon 
the  Knoll  Road — the  cottage  where  Joan  and  Liz 
lay  asleep  upon  their  poor  bed,  with  the  child  be 
tween  them. 

Joan  had  not  been  asleep  long.  The  child  had 
been  unusually  fretful,  and  had  kept  her  awake. 
So  she  was  the  more  easily  awakened  from  her 
first  light  and  uneasy  slumber  by  a  knock  on  the 
door.  Hearing  it,  she  started  up  and  listened. 

"  Who  is  it  ?  "  she  asked  in  a  voice  too  low  to 
disturb  the  sleepers,  but  distinct  enough  to  reach 
Lowrie's  hearing. 

"  Get  thee  up  an'  oppen  th'  door,"  was  the  an 
swer.  "  I  want  thee." 

She  knew  there  was  something  wrong.  She 
had  not  responded  to  his  summons  for  so  many 
years  without  learning  what  each  tone  meant. 
But  she  did  not  hesitate. 

14 


210       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

When  she  had  hastily  thrown  on  some  clothing, 
she  opened  the  door  and  stood  before  him. 

"  I  did  not  expect  to  see  yo'  to-neet,"  she  said, 
quietly. 

"  Happen  not,"  he  replied.  "  Coom  out  here. 
I  ha'  summat  to  say  to  yo'." 

"  Yo'  wunnot  come  in  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Nay.  What  I  ha'  to  say  mowt  waken  th' 
young  un." 

She  stepped  out  without  another  word,  and 
closed  the  door  quietly  behind  her. 

There  was  the  faintest  possible  light  in  the  sky, 
the  first  tint  of  dawn,  and  it  showed  even  to  his 
brutal  eyes  all  the  beauty  of  her  face  and  figure 
as  she  stood  motionless,  the  dripping  rain  falling 
upon  her ;  there  was  so  little  suggestion  of  fear 
about  her  that  he  was  roused  to  fresh  anger. 

"  Dom  yo' !  "  he  broke  forth.  "  Do  yo'  know  as 
I've  fun  yo'  out?" 

She  did  not  profess  not  to  understand  him,  but 
she  did  not  stir  an  inch. 

"  I  did  na  know  before,"  was  her  reply. 

"  Yo'  thowt  as  I  wur  to  be  stopped,  did  yo'  ? 
Yo'  thowt  as  yo'  could  keep  quiet  an'  stond  i'  my 
way,  an'  houd  me  back  till  I'd  forgetten  ?  Yo're 
a  brave  wench  !  Nivver  moind  how  I  fun  yo' 
out,  an'  seed  how  it  wur — I've  done  it,  that's 
enow  fur  yo' ;  an'  now  I've  coom  to  ha'  a  few  words 
wi*  yo'  and  settle  matters.  I  coom  here  to-neet  a 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S       211 

purpose,  an'  this  is  what  I've  getten  to  say.  Yo're 
stubborn  enow,  but  yo'  canna  stop  me.  That's 
one  thing  I  ha'  to  tell  yo',  an  here's  another. 
Yo're  hard  enow,  an'  yo're  wise  enow,  but  yo're 
noan  so  wise  as  yo'  think  fur,  if  yo'  fancy  as  a 
hundred  years  ud  mak'  me  forget  what  I  ha'  made 
up  my  moind  to,  an'  yo're  noan  so  wise  as  yo' 
think  fur,  if  yo'  put  yoursen  in  my  road.  An' 
here's  another  yet,"  clinching  his  fist.  "  If  it  wur 
murder,  as  I  wur  goin'  to  do — not  as  I  say  it  is — 
but  if  it  wur  murder  itsen  an'  yo'  wur  i'  my  way, 
theer  mowt  be  two  blows  struck  i'stead  o'  one — 
theer  mowt  be  two  murders  done — an'  I  wunnot 
say  which  ud  coom  first — fur  I'll  do  what  I've  set 
my  moind  to,  if  I'm  dom'd  to  hell  fur  it !  " 

She  did  not  move  nor  speak.  Perhaps  because 
of  her  immobility  he  broke  out  again. 

"  What !  "  he  cried.  "  Yo'  hangin'  on  to  gentle 
men,  an'  doggin'  'em,  an'  draggin'  yoursen  thro' 
th'  dark  an'  mire  to  save  'em  fro'  havin'  theer 
prutty  faces  hurt,  an'  getten  theer  dues !  Yo' 
creepin'  behind  a  mon  as  cares  no  more  fur  yo' 
than  he  does  for  th'  dirt  at  his  feet,  an'  as  laughs, 
ten  to  one,  to  know  as  yo're  ready  to  be  picked 
up  or  throwed  down  at  his  pleasure  !  Yo  watchin' 
i'  th'  shade  o'  trees  an'  stoppin'  a  mon  by  neet  as 
would  na  stop  to  speak  to  yo'  by  day.  Dom  yo' ! 
theer  were  na  a  mon  i'  Riggan  as  dare  touch  yo' 
wi'  a  yard-stick  until  this  chap  coom." 


212       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

"I've  listened  to  yo',"  she  said.  "Will  yo' 
listen  to  me  ?  " 

He  replied  with  another  oath,  and  she  con- 
tinued  as  if  it  had  been  an  assent. 

"  Theer's  a  few  o'  them  words  as  yo've  spoken 
as  is  na  true,  but  theer's  others  as  is.  It's  true  as  I 
ha'  set  mysen  to  watch,  an'  it's  true  as  I  mean  to  do 
it  again.  If  it's  nowt  but  simple  harm  yo'  mean, 
yo'  shanna  do  it;  if  it's  murder  yo'  mean — an'  I 
dunnot  trust  yo'  as  it  is  na — if  it's  murder  yo' 
mean,  theer's  yo'  an'  me  for  it  before  it's  done ; 
an'  if  theer's  deathly  blows  struck,  the  first  shall 
fa*  on  me.  Theer ! "  and  she  struck  herself  upon 
her  breast.  "  If  I  wur  ivver  afraid  o'  yo'  i'  my 
loife — if  I  ivver  feared  yo'  as  choild  or  woman, 
dunnot  believe  me  now." 

"  Yo'  mean  that?"  he  said. 

"  Yo'  know  whether  I  mean  it  or  not,"  she 
answered. 

"  Aye  !  "  he  said.  "  I'm  dom'd  if  yo'  dunnot, 
yo'  she-devil,  an'  bein'  as  that's  what's  ailin'  thee, 
I'm  dom'd  if  I  dunnot  mean  summat  too,"  and  he 
raised  his  hand  and  gave  her  a  blow  that  felled 
her  to  the  ground  ;  then  he  turned  away,  cursing 
as  he  went. 

She  uttered  no  cry  of  appeal  or  dread,  and  Liz 
and  the  child  slept  on  inside,  as  quietly  as  before. 
It  was  the  light-falling  rain  and  the  cool  morning 
air  that  roused  her.  She  came  to  herself  at  last, 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S       213 

feeling  sick  and  dizzy,  and  conscious  of  a  fierce 
pain  in  her  bruised  temple.  She  managed  to  rise 
to  her  feet  and  stand,  leaning  against  the  rough 
gate-post.  She  had  borne  such  blows  before,  but 
she  never  felt  her  humiliation  so  bitterly  as  she 
did  at  this  moment.  She  laid  her  brow  upon  her 
hand,  which  rested  on  the  gate,  and  broke  into 
heavy  sobs. 

"  I  shall  bear  th'  mark  for  mony  a  day,"  she 
said.  "  I  mun  hide  mysen  away.  I  could  na  bear 
fur  him  to  see  it,  even  tho'  I  getten  it  fur  his 
sake." 


CHAPTER  XXV 

The  Old  Danger 

IT  had  been  some  time  since  Derrick  on  his 
nightly  walks  homeward  had  been  conscious  of 
the  presence  of  the  silent  figure  ;  but  the  very 
night  after  the  occurrence  narrated  in  the  last 
chapter,  he  was  startled  at  his  first  turning  into 
the  Knoll  Road  by  recognizing  Joan. 

There  was  a  pang  to  him  in  the  discovery. 
Her  silent  presence  seemed  only  to  widen  the 
distance  Fate  had  placed  between  them.  She 
was  ready  to  shield  him  from  danger,  but  she 
held  herself  apart  from  him  even  in  doing  so. 
She  followed  her  own  path  as  if  she  were  a  creat 
ure  of  a  different  world, — a  world  so  separated 
from  his  own  that  nothing  could  ever  bridge  the 
gulf  between  them. 

To-night,  Derrick  was  seized  with  an  intense 
longing  to  speak  to  the  girl.  He  had  forborne 
for  her  sake  before,  but  to-night  he  was  in  one 
of  those  frames  of  mind  in  which  a  man  is  selfish, 
and  is  apt  to  let  his  course  be  regulated  by  his 
impulse.  Why  should  he  not  speak,  after  all  ?  If 
there  was  danger  for  him  there  was  danger  for 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S        215 

her,  and  it  was  absurd  that  he  should  not  show 
her  that  he  was  not  afraid.  Why  should  she  in 
terpose  her  single  strength  between  himself  and 
the  vengeance  of  a  man  of  whom  he  had  had  the 
best  in  their  only  encounter?  As  soon  as  they 
had  reached  the  more  unfrequented  part  of  the 
road,  he  wheeled  round  suddenly,  and  spoke. 

"  Joan,"  he  said. 

He  saw  that  she  paused  and  hesitated,  and  he 
made  up  his  mind  more  strongly.  He  took  a  few 
impetuous  steps  toward  her,  and  seeing  this,  she 
addressed  him  hurriedly. 

"  Dunnot  stop,"  she  said.  "  If — if  yo'  want  to 
speak  to  me,  I'll  go  along  wi'  yo'." 

"  You  think  I'm  in  danger  ?  " 

He  could  not  see  her  face,  but  her  voice  told 
him  that  her  usual  steady  composure  was  shaken 
— it  was  almost  like  the  voice  of  another  woman. 

"  Yo'  nivver  wur  i'  more  danger  i'  yo're  loife." 

"The  old  danger?" 

"  Th*  old  danger,  as  is  worse  to  be  feared  now 
than  ivver." 

"  And  you ! "  he  broke  out.  "  You  interpose 
yourself  between  that  danger  and  me  !  " 

His  fire  seemed  to  communicate  itself  to  her. 

"  Th'  harm  as  is  meant  to  be  done,  is  coward's 
harm,"  she  said,  "  an'  will  be  done  i'  coward's 
fashion — it  is  na  a  harm  as  will  be  done  yo'  wi' 
fair  warnin',  i'  dayleet,  an'  face  to  face.  If  it  wur, 


I  should  na  fear — but  th'  way  it  is,  I  say  it  shanna 
be  done — it  shanna,  if  I  dee  fur  it!"  Then  her 
manner  altered  again,  and  her  voice  returned  to 
its  first  tremor.  "  It  is  na  wi'  me  as  it  is  wi' 
other  women.  Yo'  munnot  judge  o'  me  as  yo' 
judge  o'  other  lasses.  What  mowtn't  be  reet  fur 
other  lasses  to  do,  is  reet  enow  fur  me.  It  has  na 
been  left  to  me  to  be  lass-loike,  an'  feart,  an' — 
an'  modest,"  and  she  drew  her  breath  hard,  as  if 
she  was  forced  to  check  herself. 

"  It  has  been  left  to  you,"  he  burst  forth,  "  it 
has  been  left  to  you  to  stand  higher  in  my  eyes 
than  any  other  woman  God  ever  made." 

He  could  not  have  controlled  himself.  And 
yet,  when  he  had  said  this,  his  heart  leaped  for 
fear  he  might  have  wounded  her  or  given  her  a 
false  impression.  But  strange  to  say,  it  proved 
this  time  that  he  had  no  need  for  fear. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  and  then  she 
answered  low. 

" Thank  yo'!" 

They  had  gone  some  yards  together,  before  he 
recovered  himself  sufficiently  to  remember  what 
he  had  meant  to  say  to  her. 

"  I  wanted  to  tell  you,"  he  said,  "  that  I  do  not 
think  any — enemy  I  have,  can  take  me  at  any 
very  great  disadvantage.  I  am — I  have  prepared 
myself." 

She  shuddered. 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S       217 

"  Yo'  carry — summat  ?  " 

"  Don't  misunderstand  me,"  he  said  quickly. 
"  I  shall  not  use  any  weapon  rashly.  It  is  to  be 
employed  more  as  a  means  of  warning  and  alarm 
than  anything  else.  Rigganites  do  not  like  fire 
arms,  and  they  are  not  used  to  them.  I  only  tell 
you  this,  because  I  cannot  bear  that  you  should 
expose  yourself  unnecessarily." 

There  was  that  in  his  manner  which  moved  her 
as  his  light  touch  had  done  that  first  night  of 
their  meeting,  when  he  had  bound  up  her  wounded 
temple  with  his  handkerchief.  It  was  that  her 
womanhood — her  hardly  used  womanhood,  of 
which  she  had  herself  thought  with  such  pathetic 
scorn — was  always  before  him,  and  was  even  a 
stronger  power  with  him  than  her  marvellous 
beauty. 

She  remembered  the  fresh  bruise  upon  her 
brow,  and  felt  its  throb  with  less  of  shame,  be 
cause  she  bore  it  for  his  sake. 

"  Promise  me  one  thing,"  he  went  on.  "  And 
do  not  think  me  ungracious  in  asking  it  of  you — 
promise  me  that  you  will  not  come  out  again 
through  any  fear  of  danger  for  me,  unless  it  is 
a  greater  one  than  threatens  me  now  and  one  I  am 
unprepared  to  meet." 

"  I  conna,"  she  answered  firmly.  "  I  conna 
promise  yo'.  Yo'  mun  let  me  do  as  I  ha*  done  fur 
th*  sake  o'  my  own  peace." 


218       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

She  made  no  further  explanation,  and  he  could 
not  persuade  her  to  alter  her  determination.  In 
fact,  he  was  led  to  see  at  last,  that  there  was  more 
behind  than  she  had  the  will  or  power  to  reveal 
to  him  ;  something  in  her  reticence  silenced  him. 

"  Yo'  dunnot  know  what  /  do,"  she  said  before 
they  parted.  "  An'  happen  yo'  would  na  quoite 
understand  it  if  yo'  did.  I  dunnot  do  things 
lightly, — I  ha'  no  reason  to, — an'  I  ha'  set  my 
moind  on  seein'  that  th'  harm  as  has  been  brewin' 
fur  long  enow,  shanna  reach  wheer  it's  aimed.  I 
mun  ha'  my  way.  Dunnot  ask  me  to  gi'e  it  up. 
Let  me  do  as  I  ha'  been  doin',  fur  th'  sake  o* 
mysen,  if  fur  no  one  else." 

The  truth  which  he  could  not  reach,  and  would 
not  have  reached  if  he  had  talked  to  her  till 
doomsday,  was  that  she  was  right  in  saying  that 
she  could  not  give  it  up.  This  woman  had  made 
no  inconsequent  boast  when  she  told  her  father 
that  if  deadly  blows  fell,  they  must  fall  first  upon 
herself.  She  was  used  to  blows,  she  could  bear 
them,  she  was  fearless  before  them, — but  she 
could  not  have  borne  to  sit  at  home,  under  any 
possibility  of  wrong  being  done  to  this  man.  God 
knows  what  heavy  sadness  had  worn  her  soul, 
through  the  months  in  which  she  had  never  for 
a  moment  flinched  from  the  knowledge  that  a 
whole  world  lay  between  herself  and  him.  God 
knows  how  she  had  struggled  against  the  un- 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S       219 

conquerable  tide  of  feeling  as  it  crept  slowly  upon 
her,  refusing  to  be  stemmed  and  threatening  to 
overwhelm  her  in  its  remorseless  waves.  She 
was  only  left  endurance — yet  even  in  this  there 
was  a  gladness  which  she  had  in  nothing  else. 
She  could  never  meet  him  as  a  happier  woman 
might,  but  she  could  do  for  him  what  other 
women  could  not  do — she  could  brave  darkness 
and  danger,  she  could  watch  over  him,  if  need  be  ; 
if  the  worst  came  to  the  worst,  she  could  inter 
pose  herself  between  him  and  violence,  or  death 
itself. 

But  of  all  this,  Fergus  Derrick  suspected 
nothing.  He  only  knew  that  while  she  had  not 
misinterpreted  his  appeal,  some  reason  of  her 
own  held  her  firm. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

The  Package  Returned 

As  Joan  turned  the  corner  of  a  lane  leading  to 
the  high  road,  she  found  herself  awkwardly  try. 
ing  to  pass  a  man  who  confronted  her — a  young 
fellow  far  too  elegant  and  well-dressed  to  be  a 
Rigganite. 

"  Beg  pardon  !"  he  said  abruptly,  as  if  he  were 
not  in  the  best  of  humors.  And  then  she  recog 
nized  him. 

"  It's  Mester  Ralph  Landsell,"  she  said  to  her 
self  as  she  went  on.  "  What  is  he  doin'  here  ?  " 

But  before  she  had  finished  speaking,  she 
started  at  the  sight  of  a  figure  hurrying  on  before 
her, — Liz  herself,  who  had  evidently  just  parted 
from  her  lover,  and  was  walking  rapidly  home 
ward. 

It  was  a  shock  to  Joan,  though  she  did  not  sus 
pect  the  whole  truth.  She  had  trusted  the  girl 
completely  ;  she  had  never  interfered  with  her 
outgoing  or  incoming;  she  had  been  generously 
lenient  toward  her  on  every  point,  and  her  pang 
at  finding  herself  deceived  was  keen.  Her  sudden 
discovery  of  the  subterfuge  filled  her  with  alarm. 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S       221 

What  was  the  meaning  of  it?  Surely  it  could 
not  mean  that  this  man  was  digging  fresh  pitfalls 
for  the  poor  straying  feet.  She  could  not  be 
lieve  this, — she  could  only  shudder  as  the  omi 
nous  thought  suggested  itself.  And  Liz — nay, 
even  Liz  could  not  be  weak  enough  to  trifle  with 
danger  again. 

But  it  was  Liz  who  was  hurrying  on  before 
her,  and  who  was  walking  so  fast  that  both  were 
breathless  when  Joan  reached  her  side  and  laid 
a  detaining  hand  upon  her  shoulder. 

"  Liz,"  she  said,  "  are  yo'  afeard  o'  me  ?  " 

Liz  turned  her  face  around,  colorless  and 
frightened.  There  was  a  tone  in  the  voice  she 
had  never  heard  before,  a  reproach  in  Joan's  eyes 
before  which  she  faltered. 

"I — did  na  know  it  wur  yo',"  she  said,  almost 
peevishly.  "  What  fur  should  I  be  afeard  o'  yo'  ?  " 

Joan's  hand  dropped. 

"  Yo'  know  best,"  she  answered.  "  I  did  na  say 
yo'  wur." 

Liz  pulled  her  shawl  closer  about  her  shoul 
ders,  as  if  in  nervous  protest. 

"  I  dunnot  see  why  I  should  be,  though  to  be 
sure  it's  enow  to  fear  one  to  be  followed  i'  this 
way.  Canna  I  go  out  fur  a  minnit  wi'out  — 
wi'out — " 

"Nay,  lass,"  Joan  interrupted,  "that's  wild 
talk." 


222       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

Liz  began  to  whimper. 

"  Th'  choild  wur  asleep,"  she  said,  "  an*  it  wur 
so  lonesome  i'  th'  house.  Theer  wur  no  harm  i' 
comin'  out." 

"  I  hope  to  God  theer  wur  na,"  exclaimed  Joan. 
"  I'd  rayther  see  thy  dead  face  lyin'  by  th'  little 
un's  on  th'  pillow  than  think  as  theer  wur.  Yo' 
know  what  I  mean,  Liz.  Yo'  know  I  could 
na  ha'  caught  up  wi'  yo'  wi'out  passin'  thot  mon 
theer, — th'  mon  as  yo'  ha'  been  meetin'  on  th'  sly, 
— God  knows  why,  lass,  fur  I  canna  see,  unless 
yo'  want  to  fa'  back  to  shame  an'  ruin." 

They  were  at  home  by  this  time,  and  she 
opened  the  door  to  let  the  girl  walk  in  before 
her. 

"  Get  thee  inside,  Liz,"  she  said.  "  I  mun  hear 
what  tha  has  to  say,  fur  I  conna  rest  i'  fear  for 
thee.  I  am  na  angered,  fur  I  pity  thee  too  much. 
Tha  art  naught  but  a  choild  at  th'  best,  an'  th' 
world  is  fu'  o'  traps  an'  snares." 

Liz  took  off  her  hat  and  shawl  and  sat  down. 
She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  sobbed 
appealingly. 

"  I  ha'  na  done  no  harm,"  she  protested.  "  I 
nivver  meant  none.  It  wur  his  fault.  He  wunnot 
let  me  a-be,  an* — an'  he  said  he  wanted  to  hear 
summat  about  th'  choild,  an'  gi'e  me  summat  to 
help  me  along.  He  said  as  he  wur  ashamed  o' 
hissen  to  ha'  left  me  wi'out  money,  but  he  wur 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S       223 

hard  run  at  the  toime,  an'  now  he  wanted  to  gi' 
me  some." 

"  Money !  "  said  Joan.  "  Did  he  offer  yo' 
money  ?  " 

"  Aye,  he  said " 

"  Wait ! "  said  Joan.     "  Did  yo'  tak'  it  ?  " 

"  What  would  yo'  ha'  me  do  ? "  restlessly. 
"  Theer  wur  no  harm " 

"  Ha'  yo'  getten  it  on  yo'  ?  "  interrupting  her 
again. 

"Aye,"  stopping  to  look  up  questioningly. 

Joan  held  out  her  hand. 

"  Gi'e  it  to  me,"  she  said,  steadily. 

Mr.  Ralph  Landsell,  who  was  sitting  in  his 
comfortable  private  parlor  at  the  principal  hotel 
of  the  little  town,  was  disturbed  in  the  enjoyment 
of  his  nightly  cigar  by  the  abrupt  announcement 
of  a  visitor, — a  young  woman,  who  surprised  him 
by  walking  into  the  room  and  straight  up  to  the 
table  near  which  he  sat. 

She  was  such  a  very  handsome  young  woman, 
with  her  large  eyes  and  finely  cut  face,  and  heavy 
nut-brown  hair,  and,  despite  her  common  dress, 
so  very  imposing  a  young  woman,  that  the  young 
man  was  quite  startled, — especially  when  she  laid 
upon  the  table-cloth  a  little  package,  which  he 
knew  had  only  left  his  hands  half  an  hour  before. 

"  I  ha'  browt  it  back  to  yo' ; "  she  said,  calmly. 


224       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

He  glanced  down  at  the  package  and  then  up 
at  her,  irritated  and  embarrassed. 

"  You  have  brought  it  back  to  me  ? "  he  said. 
"  May  I  ask  what  it  is?" 

"  I  dunnot  think  yo'  need  ask ;  but  sin'  yo'  do 
so,  I  con  answer.  It's  th'  money,  Mester  Land- 
sell, — th'  money  yo'  give  to  poor  Lizzie." 

"  And  may  I  ask  again,  what  the  money  1  gave 
to  poor  Lizzie  has  to  do  with  you  ?  " 

"  Yo'  may  ask  again,  an'  I  con  answer.  I  am 
th'  poor  lass's  friend, — happen  th'  only  friend  she 
has  i'  th'  world, — an'  I  tell  yo'  as  I  will  na  see  yo' 
play  her  false  again." 

"  The  devil !  "  he  broke  forth,  angrily.  "  You 
speak  as — as  if  you  thought  I  meant  her  harm." 

He  colored  and  faltered,  even  as  he  spoke. 
Joan  faced  him  with  bright  and  scornful  eyes. 

"  If  yo'  dunnot  mean  her  harm,  dunnot  lead  her 
to  underhand  ways  o'  deceivin'  them  as  means 
her  well.  If  yo'  dunnot  mean  her  harm,  tak'  yore 
belongings  and  leave  Riggan  to-morrow  morn- 
ing." 

He  answered  her  by  a  short,  uneasy  laugh. 

"  By  Jove ! "  he  said.  "  You  are  a  cool  hand, 
young  woman — but  you  can  set  your  mind  at 
rest.  I  shall  not  leave  Riggan  to-morrow  morn- 
ing,  as  you  modestly  demand — not  only  because 
I  have  further  business  to  transact,  but  because  I 
choose  to  remain.  I  shall  not  make  any  absurd 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S       225 

promises  about  not  seeing  Lizzie,  which,  it  seems 
to  me,  is  more  my  business  than  yours,  under  the 
circumstances — and  I  shall  not  take  the  money 
back." 

"Yo'  willna?" 

"  No,  I  will  not" 

"  Very  well.  I  ha'  no  more  to  say,"  and  she 
went  out  of  the  room,  leaving  the  package  lying 
upon  the  table. 

When  she  reached  home,  Liz  was  still  sitting  as 
she  had  left  her,  and  she  looked  up  tearful  and 
impatient. 

"Well?  "she  said. 

"  He  has  th'  money,"  was  Joan's  answer,  "  an' 
he  ha'  shown  me  as  he  is  a  villain." 

She  came  and  stood  near  the  girl,  a  strong 
emotion  in  her  half  pitying,  half  appealing  look. 

"  Lizzie,  lass !  "  she  said.  "  Tha  mun  listen  to 
me, — tha  mun.  Tha  mun  mak'  me  a  promise  be 
fore  tha  tak's  thy  choild  upo'  thy  breast  to-neet." 

"  I  dunnot  care,"  protested  Liz,  weeping  fret 
fully.  "  I  dunnot  care  what  I  do.  It's  aw  as  bad 
as  ivver  now.  I  dunnot  care  for  nowt.  Ivvery- 
'  body's  at  me — noan  on  yo'  will  let  me  a-be.  What 
wi'  first  one  an'  then  another  I'm  a'most  drove 
wild." 

"  God  help  thee ! "  said  Joan  with  a  heavy  sigh. 
"  I  dunnot  mean  to  be  hard,  lass,  but  yo'  mun 
promise  me.  It  is  na  mich,  Lizzie,  if — if  things 


226       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

is  na  worse  wi'  yo'  than  I  would  ivver  believe. 
Yo're  safe  so  far :  promise  me  as  yo'  will  na  run 
i'  danger — promise  me  as  yo'  will  na  see  that  man 
again,  that  yo'll  keep  out  o'  his  way  till  he  leaves 
Riggan." 

"  I'll  promise  owt,"  cried  Liz.  "  I  dunnot  care, 
I  tell  yo'.  I'll  promise  owt  yo'll  ax,  if  yo'll  let 
me  a-be,"  and  she  hid  her  face  upon  her  arms  and 
wept  aloud. 


CHAPTER  XWll 

Sammy  Craddock' s  "  Manny-ensis." 

AT  least  twice  a  week  Jud  Bates  made  a  pil« 
grimage  to  Haviland  Park.  Having  been  en 
lightened  to  the  extent  of  two  or  three  chapters 
of  "  Robinson  Crusoe,"  Sammy  Craddock  was 
athirst  for  more.  He  regarded  the  adventures  of 
the  hero  as  valuable  information  from  foreign 
shores,  as  information  that  might  be  used  in  po 
litical  debates,  and  brought  forth  on  state  occa 
sions  to  floor  a  presumptuous  antagonist.  Ac 
cordingly,  he  held  out  inducements  to  Jud  such 
as  the  boy  was  not  likely  to  think  lightly  of.  A 
penny  a  night,  and  a  good  supper  for  himself  and 
Nib,  held  solid  attractions  for  Jud,  and  at  this 
salary  he  found  himself  engaged  in  the  character 
of  what  "  Owd  Sammy  "  called  "  a  manny-ensis." 

"What's  that  theer?"  inquired  Mrs.  Craddock 
on  first  hearing  this  imposing  title.  "  A  manny — 
what?" 

"  A  manny-ensis,  owd  lass,"  said  Sammy,  chuck 
ling.  "  Did  tha  ivver  hear  o'  a  private  gentleman 
as  had  na  a  manny-ensis?  " 

"  Nay.     I  know  nowt  about  thy  manny-ensisses, 


228       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

an'  I'll  warrant  tha  does  na  know  what  such  loike 
is  thysen." 

"  It  means  a  power  o'  things,"  answered  Sammy ; 
"  a  power  o'  things.  It's  a  word  as  is  comprehen 
sive,  as  they  ca'  it,  an'  it's  one  as  will  do  as  well 
as  any  fur  th'  lad.  A  manny-ensis  !  "  and  manny- 
ensis  it  remained. 

Surely  the  adventures  of  the  island-solitary  had 
never  given  such  satisfaction  as  they  gave  in  the 
cheery  house  room  of  the  lodge.  Sammy  listened 
to  them  over  numerous  pipes,  with  a  respect  for 
literature  such  as  had  never  before  been  engen 
dered  in  his  mind  by  the  most  imposing  display 
of  bindings. 

"  I've  allus  thowt  as  th'  newspaper  wur  enow 
fur  a  mon  to  tackle,"  he  would  say,  reflectively ; 
"  but  theer's  summat  outside  o'  th'  newspapers.  I 
nivver  seed  a  paper  as  had  owt  in  it  about  desert 
islands,  let  alone  cannybles." 

"  Canny  bles,  indeed!"  replied  Mrs.  Craddock, 
who  was  occasionally  one  of  the  audience.  "I 
conna  mak'  no  sense  out  o'  thee  an'  thy  cannybles. 
I  wonder  they  are  na'  shamt  o'  theirsens,  goin' 
about  wi'out  so  mich  as  a  hat  on,  an'  eatin'  each 
other,  as  if  there  wur  na  a  bit  o'  good  victual  i'  th' 
place.  I  wonder  th'  Queen  dunnot  put  a  stop 
to  it  hersen  if  th'  parlyment  ha'  not  getten  the 
sense  to  do  it.  It's  noan  respectable,  let  alone 
Christian." 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S       229 

"  Eh  !  "  said  Sammy  ;  "  but  tha'rt  i'  a  muddle. 
Th'dst  allus  be  i'  a  muddle  if  I'd  let  thee  mak' 
things  out  thysen  an'  noan  explain  'em  to  thee. 
Does  tha  think  aw  this  here  happent  i'  England? 
It  wur  i'  furrin  lands,  owd  wench,  i'  a  desert 
island  i'  th'  midst  o'  th'  sea." 

"  Well,  I  wur  hopin'  it  wur  na  i'  Lancashire,  I 
mun  say  ! " 

"  Lancashire  !  Why,  it  happent  further  off  nor 
Lunnon,  i'  a  place  as  it's  loike  th'  Queen  has  niv- 
ver  seed  nor  heerd  tell  on." 

The  old  woman  looked  dubious,  if  not  disap 
proving.  A  place  that  was  not  in  Lancashire,  and 
that  the  Queen  had  nothing  to  do  with,  was,  to 
her,  a  place  quite  "  off  color." 

"  Well !  well ! "  she  resumed,  with  the  manner 
of  an  unbeliever,  "  thee  go  on  thy  way  readin'  if 
tha  con  tak'  comfort  i'  it.  But  1  mun  say  again 
as  it  does  na  sound  Christian  to  me.  That's  the 
least  I  con  say  on't." 

"  Tha'rt  slow  i'  understanding  owd  lass,"  was 
her  husband's  tolerant  comment.  "  Tha'  does  na 
know  enow  o'  litterytoor  to  appreciate.  Th' 
female  intylect  is  na  strong  at  th'  best,  an'  tha 
nivver  wur  more  than  ordinary.  Get  into  it, 
Manny-ensis.  It's  getten  late,  and  I'm  fain  to 
hear  more  about  th'  mon  Friday,  an'  how  th'  poor 
chap  managed." 

Both  reader  and  audience  were  so  full  of  inter- 


230      THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

est  that  Jud's  story  was  prolonged  beyond  the 
usual  hour.  But  to  the  boy,  this  was  a  matter  of 
small  consequence.  He  had  tramped  the  woods 
too  often  with  Nib  for  a  companion  to  feel  fear  at 
any  time.  He  had  slept  under  a  hedge  many  a 
night  from  choice,  and  had  enjoyed  his  slumber 
like  a  young  vagabond,  as  he  was. 

He  set  out  on  this  occasion  in  high  good  humor. 
There  were  no  clouds  to  hide  the  stars ;  he  had 
had  an  excellent  supper,  and  he  had  enjoyed  his 
evening.  He  trudged  along  cheerily,  his  enjoy 
ment  as  yet  unabated.  The  trees  and  hedges, 
half  stripped  of  their  leaves,  were  so  suggestive 
of  birds'  nests,  that  now  and  then  he  stepped  aside 
to  examine  them  more  closely.  The  nests  might 
be  there  yet,  though  the  birds  had  flown.  Where 
throstles  had  built  this  year,  it  was  just  possible 
others  might  build  again,  and,  at  any  rate,  it  was 
as  well  to  know  where  their  haunts  had  been.  So, 
having  objects  enough  to  attract  his  attention,  the 
boy  did  not  find  the  way  long.  He  was  close 
upon  the  mine  before  he  had  time  to  feel  fatigue 
possible,  and,  nearing  the  mine,  he  was  drawn 
from  his  path  again  by  a  sudden  remembrance 
brought  up  by  the  sight  of  a  hedge  surrounding  a 
field  near  it. 

"  Theer  wur  a  bird  as  built  i'  that  hedge  i'  th' 
spring,"  he  said.  "  She  wur  a  new  kind.  I'd  for 
gotten  her.  I  meant  to  ha'  watched  her.  I  won- 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S       231 

der  if  any  other  felly  fun  her.  I'll  go  an'  see  if 
th'  nest  is  theer." 

He  crossed  the  road  to  the  place  where  he  fan 
cied  he  had  seen  this  treasure  ;  but  not  being 
quite  certain  as  to  the  exact  spot,  he  found  his 
search  lengthened  by  this  uncertainty. 

"It  wur  here,"  he  said  to  himself;  "at  least  I 
thowt  it  wur.  Some  chap  mun  ha'  fun  it  an* 
tuk  it." 

At  this  moment  he  paused,  as  if  listening. 

"  What's  that  theer?  "  he  said.  "Theer's  some 
one  on  th'  other  side  o'  th'  hedge." 

He  had  been  attracted  by  the  sound  of  voices — 
men's  voices — the  voices  of  men  who  were  evi 
dently  crouching  under  the  shadow  of  the  hedge 
on  the  other  side,  and  whose  tones  in  a  moment 
more  reached  him  distinctly  and  were  recognized. 

The  first  was  Dan  Lowrie's,  and  before  he  had 
heard  him  utter  a  dozen  words,  Jud  dropped 
upon  his  knees  and  laid  his  hand  warningly  upon 
Nib's  neck.  The  dog  pricked  his  pointed  ears 
and  looked  up  at  him  restlessly.  All  the  self-con 
trol  of  his  nature  could  scarcely  help  him  to  sup 
press  a  whine. 

"  Them  as  is  feared  to  stand  by  Dan  Lowrie," 
said  the  voice,  with  an  oath,  "  let  'em  say  so." 

"  Theer's  not  a  mon  here  as  is  feart,"  was  the 
gruff  answer. 

"  Then  theer's  no  need  to  gab  no   more,"  re- 


232       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

turned  Lowrie.  "  Yo'  know  what  yo'  ha'  getten 
to  do.  Yo'  ha'  th'  vitriol  an'  th'  sticks.  Wait  yo1 
fur  him  at  th'  second  corner  an'  I'll  wait  at  th' 
first.  If  he  does  na  tak'  one  turn  into  th'  road 
he'll  tak'  th'  other,  an'  so  which  turn  he  tak's 
we'll  be  ready  fur  him.  Blast  him !  he'll  be  done 
wi'  engineerin'  fur  a  while  if  he  fa's  into  my 
hands,  an'  he'll  mak'  no  more  rows  about  th' 
Davvies." 

Impatient  for  the  word  of  command,  Nib 
stirred  uneasily  among  the  dead  leaves,  and  the 
men  heard  him.  Not  a  moment's  space  was  given 
to  the  two  listeners,  or  they  would  have  saved 
themselves.  There  was  a  smothered  exclamation 
from  three  voices  at  once,  a  burst  of  profanity. 
and  Dan  Lowrie  had  leaped  the  low  hedge  and 
caught  Jud  by  the  collar.  The  man  was  ghastly 
with  rage.  He  shook  the  lad  until  even  he  him 
self  was  breathless. 

"  Yo'  young  devil !  *'  he  cried,  hoarsely,  "  yo've 
been  listenin',  ha'  yo'  ?  Nay,  theer's  no  use  o* 
yo'  tryin'  to  brave  it  out.  Yo've  done  for  yorsen, 
by  God ! " 

"  Let  me  a-be,"  said  Jud,  but  he  was  as  pale  as 
his  captor.  "  I  wur  na  doin*  thee  no  harm.  I 
on'y  coom  to  look  fur  a  bird's  nest." 

"  Yo'  listened,"  said  Lowrie ;  "  yo'  heerd  what 
we  said." 

"  Let  me  a-be,"  was  Jud's  sullen  reply. 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S        233 

At  this  moment  a  man's  face  rose  above  the 
whitethorn  hedge. 

"  Who  is  it  ?  "  asked  the  fellow,  in  a  low  voice. 

"A  dom'd  young  rascal  as  has  been  eaves- 
droppin'.  Yo'  may  as  well  coom  out,  lads.  We've 
getten  to  settle  wi'  him,  or  we'n  fun  ourselves  in 
th'  worst  box  yet." 

The  man  scrambled  over  the  hedge  without 
further  comment  and  his  companion  followed 
him  ;  and  seeing  who  they  were,  Jud  felt  that  his 
position  was  even  more  dangerous  than  he  fan 
cied  at  first.  The  three  plotters  who  grouped 
themselves  about  him  were  three  of  the  most  des 
perate  fellows  in  the  district — brutal,  revengeful, 
vicious,  combining  all  the  characteristics  of  a  bad 
class.  The  two  last  looked  at  him  with  evident 
discomfort  and  bewilderment. 

"  Here's  a  pretty  go,"  said  one. 

"Aye,  by  th'  Lord  Harry!"  added  the  other. 
"  How  long's  he  bin  here  ?  " 

"  How  long'st  bin  here  ? "  demanded  Lowrie, 
with  another  shake. 

"  Long  enow  to  look  fur  a  bird's  nest  an*  not 
find  it,"  said  Jud,  trying  to  speak  stoutly. 

The  three  exchanged  glances  and  oaths. 

"  He's  heerd  ivvery  word,"  said  Lowrie,  in  a 
savage  answer. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  and  then  Lowrie 
broke  out  again. 


234       THAT  LASS  O'  LOWRIE'S 

"  Theer's  on'y  one  road  to  stop  his  gab,"  he 
said.  "  Pitch  him  into  th'  mine,  an'  be  dom'd  to 
him.  He  shall  na  spoil  th'  job,  if  I  ha'  to  swing 
fur  it." 

Nib  gave  a  low  whine,  and  Jud's  heart  leaped 
within  him.  Every  lad  in  Riggan  knew  Dan 
Lowrie  and  feared  him.  There  was  not  a  soul 
within  hearing,  and  people  were  not  fond  of  vis 
iting  the  mine  at  night,  so  if  they  chose  to  dispose 
of  him  in  any  way,  they  would  have  time  and  op 
portunity  to  do  it  without  risk  of  being  interfered 
with.  But  it  happened  that  upon  the  present  oc 
casion  Lowrie's  friends  were  not  as  heated  as 
himself.  It  was  not  a  strictly  personal  grudge 
they  were  going  to  settle,  and  consequently  some 
remnant  of  humanity  got  the  better  of  them. 

"  Nay,"  said  the  youngest,  "  one's  enow." 

"  Nay,"  Lowrie  put  in ;  "  one's  not  enow  fur 
me,  if  theer's  another  as  is  goin'  to  meddle.  Sum- 
mat's  getten  to  be  done,  an'  done  quick." 

"  Mak'  him  promise  to  keep  his  mouth  shut," 
suggested  No.  3.  "  He'll  do  it  sooner  nor  get 
hissen  into  trouble." 

"  Wilt  ta?"  demanded  the  young  one. 

Jud  looked  up  at  him.  He  had  the  stubborn 
North  country  blood  in  him,  and  the  North  coun 
try  courage.  Having  heard  what  he  had,  he  was 
sharp  enough  to  comprehend  all.  There  was  only 
one  engineer  whom  Lowrie  could  have  a  grudge 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S       235 

against,  and  that  one  was  Derrick.  They  were 
going  to  work  some  harm  against  "  Mester  Der 
rick,"  who  was  his  friend  and  Miss  Anice's. 

"Wilt  ta?"  repeated  his  questioner,  feeling 
quite  sure  of  him.  The  youth  of  Riggan  were 
generally  ready  enough  for  mischief,  and  troubled 
by  no  scruples  of  conscience,  so  the  answer  he 
received  took  him  by  surprise. 

"  Nay,"  said  Jud,  "  I  will  na." 

"Tha  willna?" 

"  Nay." 

The  fellow  fell  back  a  step  or  two  to  stare  at 
him. 

"Well,  tha'rt  a  plucky  one  at  ony  rate,"  he 
growled,  discomfited. 

Jud  stood  his  ground. 

"  Mester  Derrick's  bin  good  to  me,"  he  said, 
"  an'  he's  bin  good  to  Nib.  Th'  rest  o'  yo'  ha'  a 
kick  for  Nib  whenivver  he  gits  i'  yo're  way ;  but 
he  nivver  so  much  as  spoke  rough  to  him.  He's 
gin  me  a  penny  more  nor  onct  to  buy  him  sum- 
mat  to  eat.  Chuck  me  down  the  shaft,  if  yo' 
want  to." 

Though  he  scarcely  believed  they  would  take 
him  at  his  word,  since  the  two  were  somewhat  in 
his  favor,  it  was  a  courageous  thing  to  say. 
If  his  fate  had  rested  in  Lowrie's  hands  alone, 
heaven  knows  what  the  result  might  have  been  ; 
but  having  the  others  to  contend  with,  he  was 


236       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

safe  so  far.  But  there  was  not  much  time  to  lose, 
and  even  the  less  interested  parties  to  the  trans 
gression  had  a  stolid  determination  to  stand  by 
their  comrade.  There  was  a  hurried  consultation 
held  in  undertones,  and  then  the  youngest  man 
bent  suddenly,  and,  with  a  short  laugh,  caught 
Nib  in  his  arms.  He  was  vicious  enough  to  take 
a  pleasure  in  playing  tormentor,  if  in  his  cooler 
moods  he  held  back  from  committing  actual 
crime. 

"  Tha'rt  a  plucky  young  devil,"  he  said  ;  "  but 
tha's  getten  to  swear  to  howd  thy  tongue  between 
thy  teeth,  an'  if  tha  wunnot  do  it  fur  thy  own 
sake,  happen  tha  will  fur  th'  dog's." 

"  What  art  tha  goin'  to  do  wi'  him?  "  cried  Jud, 
trembling.  "  He  has  na  done  yo'  no  hurt." 

"  We're  goin'  to  howd  him  over  th'  shaft  a 
minnit  till  tha  mak's  up  thy  mind.  Bring  th' 
young  chap  along,  lads." 

He  had  not  struggled  before,  but  he  began  to 
struggle  now  with  all  his  strength.  He  grew  hot 
and  cold  by  turns.  It  might  not  be  safe  to  kill 
him ;  but  it  would  be  safe  enough  to  kill  Nib. 

"  Let  me  a-be,"  he  cried.  "  Let  that  theer  dog 
loose.  Nib,  Nib, — seize  him,  lad  !  " 

"  Put  thy  hond  over  his  mouth,"  said  the  young 
man. 

And  so  Jud  was  half  dragged,  half  carried  to 
the  shaft.  It  was  as  useless  for  him  to  struggle 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S       237 

as  it  was  for  Nib.  Both  were  powerless.  But 
Jud's  efforts  to  free  himself  were  so  frantic  that 
the  men  laughed, — Lowrie  grimly,  the  other  two 
with  a  kind  of  malicious  enjoyment  of  the  gro- 
tesqueness  of  the  situation. 

"  Set  him  down,  but  keep  him  quiet,"  was  the 
command  given  when  they  reached  the  pit's 
side. 

The  next  instant  a  dreadful  cry  was  smothered 
in  the  boy's  grappled  throat.  They  were  leaning 
against  the  rail  and  holding  Nib  over  the  black 
abyss. 

"  Wilt  ta  promise  ?  "  he  was  asked.  "  Tha  may 
let  him  speak,  Lowrie ;  he  canna  mak'  foak  hear." 

Nib  looked  down  into  the  blackness,  and  broke 
into  a  terrific  whine,  turning  his  head  toward  his 
master. 

"  I — I — conna  promise,"  said  Jud  ;  but  he  burst 
into  tears. 

"  Let  th'  dog  go,"  said  Lowrie. 

"  Try  him  again.  Wilt  ta  promise,  or  mun  we 
let  th'  dog  go,  lad  ?  We're  noan  goin'  to  do  th' 
chap  ony  great  harm ;  we're  on'y  goin'  to  play 
him  a  trick  to  pay  him  back  fur  his  cheek." 

Jud  looked  at  Nib. 

"  Lowrie  said  you  had  vitriol  and  knob-sticks," 
he  faltered.  "  Yo'  dunnat  play  tricks  wi'  them''' 

"  Yo'  see  how  much  he's  heerd,"  said  Lowrie. 
"  He'll  noan  promise." 


238       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

The  one  who  held  the  dog  was  evidently  losing 
patience. 

"  Say  yes  or  no,  yo'  young  devil,"  he  said,  and 
he  made  a  threatening  gesture.  "  We  conna  stand 
here  aw  neet.  Promise  ta  will  na  tell  mon,  woman, 
nor  choild,  what  tha  heerd  us  say.  When  I  say 
'three,'  I'll  drop  th'  dog.  One— two— " 

The  look  of  almost  human  terror  in  Nib's  eyes 
was  too  much  for  his  master.  Desperation  filled 
him.  He  could  not  sacrifice  Nib — he  could  not 
sacrifice  the  man  who  had  been  Nib's  friend ;  but 
he  might  make  a  sort  of  sacrifice  of  himself  to 
both. 

"  Stop  !  "  he  cried.     "  I'll  promise  yo'." 

He  had  saved  Nib,  but  there  was  some  parley 
ing  before  he  was  set  free,  notwithstanding  his 
promise  to  be  silent.  But  for  the  fact  that  he  was 
under  the  control  of  the  others  for  the  time  be 
ing,  Lowrie  would  have  resorted  to  harsher  pre 
cautions  ;  but  possibly  influenced  by  a  touch  of 
admiration  for  the  lad,  the  youngest  man  held  out 
against  his  companions.  They  wrangled  together 
for  a  few  minutes,  and  then  Nib  was  handed  over. 

"  Here,  cut  an'  run,  tha  young  beggar,"  said 
the  fellow  who  had  stood  by  him,  "  an'  dunnot 
let's  hear  ony  more  on  thee.  If  we  do,  it'll  be 
worse  fur  thee  an'  th'  dog  too.  So  look  out." 

Jud  did  not  wait  for  a  second  command.  The 
instant  he  felt  Nib  in  his  arms,  he  scudded  over 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S       239 

the  bare  space  of  ground  before  him  at  his  best 
speed.  They  should  not  have  time  to  repent  their 
decision.  If  the  men  had  seen  his  face,  they  might 
not  have  felt  so  safe.  But  the  truth  was,  they 
were  reckoning  upon  Jud  Bates  as  they  would 
have  reckoned  upon  any  other  young  Riggan 
rascal  of  his  age.  After  all,  it  was  not  so  much 
his  promise  they  relied  on  as  his  wholesome  fear 
of  the  consequences  of  its  being  broken.  It  was 
not  a  matter  of  honor  but  of  dread. 


CHAPTER  XXWII 

Warned 

IT  was  even  later  than  usual  this  evening  when 
Fergus  Derrick  left  the  Rectory.  When  Mr. 
Barholm  was  in  his  talkative  mood,  it  was  not 
easy  for  him  to  break  away.  So  Derrick  was 
fain  to  listen  and  linger,  and  then  supper  was 
brought  in  and  he  was  detained  again,  and  at 
eleven  o'clock  Mr.  Barholm  suddenly  hit  upon  a 
new  topic. 

"  By  the  by,"  he  said,  "  where  is  that  fellow, 
Lowrie  ?  I  thought  he  had  left  Riggan." 

"  He  did  leave  Riggan,"  answered  Derrick. 

"  So  I  heard,"  returned  the  Rector,  "  and  I  sup 
pose  I  was  mistaken  in  fancying  I  caught  sight 
of  him  to-day.  I  don't  know  the  man  very  well 
and  I  might  easily  be  deceived.  But  where 
is  he?" 

"  I  think,"  said  Derrick,  quietly,  "  that  he  is  in 
Riggan.  I  am  not  of  the  opinion  that  you  were 
mistaken  at  all.  I  am  sure  he  is  here,  but  for 
reasons  of  his  own  he  is  keeping  himself  quiet.  I 
know  him  too  well  to  be  deceived  by  any  fancied 
resemblance." 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S       241 

"  But  what  are  his  reasons  ? "  was  the  next 
question.  "  That  looks  bad,  you  know.  He  be 
longs  to  a  bad  crew." 

"  Bad  enough,"  said  Derrick. 

"  Is  it  a  grudge  ?  He  is  just  the  rascal  to  bear 
a  grudge." 

"  Yes,"  said  Derrick.  "  It  is  a  grudge  against 
me." 

He  looked  up  then  across  the  table  at  Anice 
and  smiled  reassuringly. 

'You  did  not  tell  us  that  you  had  seen  him," 
she  said. 

"  No.  You  think  I  ought  to  be  afraid  of  him, 
and  I  am  too  vain  to  like  to  admit  the  possibility 
that  it  would  be  better  to  fear  any  man,  even  a 
Riggan  collier." 

"  But  such  a  man !  "  put  in  Mrs.  Barholm.  "  It 
seems  to  me  he  is  a  man  to  be  feared." 

"  I  can  thrash  him,"  said  Derrick.  He  could 
not  help  feeling  some  enjoyment  in  this  certainty. 
"  I  did  thrash  him  upon  one  occasion,  you 
know,  and  a  single  combat  with  a  fellow  of  that 
kind  is  oftener  than  not  decisive." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Rector,  "  that  is  the  principal 
cause  of  his  grudge,  I  think.  He  might  forgive 
you  for  getting  him  into  trouble,  but  he  will 
never  forgive  you  for  thrashing  him." 

They  were  still  sitting  at  the  table  discussing 
the  matter,  when  Anice,  who  sat  opposite  a  win- 
16 


242       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

dow,  rose  from  her  seat,  and  crossing  the  room  to 
it,  drew  aside  the  curtain  and  looked  out. 

"  There  was  somebody  there,"  she  said,  in  answer 
to  the  questioning  in  the  faces  of  her  companions. 
"  There  was  a  face  pressed  close  against  the  glass 
for  a  minute,  and  I  am  sure  it  was  Jud  Bates." 

Derrick  sprang  from  his  chair.  To  his  mind,  it 
did  not  appear  at  all  unlikely  that  Jud  Bates  had 
mischief  in  hand.  There  were  apples  enough  in 
the  Rectory  garden  to  be  a  sore  trial  to  youthful 
virtue. 

He  opened  the  door  and  stepped  into  the  night, 
and  in  a  short  time  a  sharp  familiar  yelp  fell 
upon  the  ears  of  the  listeners.  Almost  immedi 
ately  after,  Derrick  returned,  holding  the  tres 
passer  by  the  arm. 

It  was  Jud  Bates,  but  he  did  not  look  exactly 
like  a  convicted  culprit,  though  his  appearance 
was  disordered  enough.  He  was  pale  and  out  of 
breath,  he  had  no  cap  on,  and  he  was  holding 
Nib,  panting  and  excited,  in  his  arms. 

"  Jud,"  exclaimed  Anice,  "  what  have  you  been 
doing  ?  Why  did  you  come  to  the  window  ?  " 

Jud  drew  Nib  closer,  and  turned,  if  possible,  a 
trifle  paler. 

"  I  coom,"  he  said,  tremulously,  "  to  look  in." 

Nobody  smiled. 

"  To  look  in  ?  "  said  Anict.  "  Why,  whom  did 
you  want  to  see  ?  " 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S       243 

Jud  jerked  his  elbow  at  Derrick. 

"  It  was  him"  he  answered.  "  I  wanted  to  see  if 
he  had  gone  home  yet." 

"  But  why  ?  "  she  asked  again. 

He  shuffled  his  feet  uneasily  and  his  eyes  fell. 
He  looked  down  at  Nib's  head  and  faltered. 

"  I — "  he  said.  "  I  wanted  to  stop  him.  I — I 

dunnot  know "  And  then  the  rest  came  in  a 

burst.  "  He  munnot  go,"  he  cried,  trembling 
afresh.  "  He  mun  keep  away  fro'  th'  Knoll 
Road." 

The  party  exchanged  glances. 

"There  is  mischief  in  hand,"  said  Mr.  Barholm ; 
"  that  is  plain  enough." 

"  He  munnot  go,"  persisted  Jud  ;  "  he  mun  keep 
away  fro'  th'  Knoll  Road.  "  I'm  gettin'  myself  i' 
trouble,"  he  added,  the  indifference  of  despair  in 
his  pale  face.  "  If  I'm  fun  out  they'll  mill  me." 

Derrick  stepped  aside  into  the  hall  and  re 
turned  with  his  hat  in  his  hand.  He  looked 
roused  and  determined. 

"  There  are  two  or  three  stout  colliers  in  Rig- 
gan  who  are  my  friends,  I  think,"  he  said,  "  and 
I  am  going  to  ask  them  to  face  the  Knoll  Road 
with  me.  I  should  like  to  settle  this  matter  to 
night.  If  I  give  these  fellows  the  chance  to  at 
tack  me,  they  will  be  the  more  easily  disposed  of. 
A  few  years  in  jail  might  have  a  salutary  effect 
upon  Lowrie." 


244       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

In  his  momentary  heat,  he  forgot  all  but  the 
strife  into  which  he  was  forced.  He  did  not  ques 
tion  Jud  closely.  He  knew  Riggan  and  the  min 
ing  districts  too  well  not  to  have  a  clear  enough 
idea  of  what  means  of  vengeance  would  be  em 
ployed. 

But  when  he  got  out  into  the  night  he  had  not 
gone  many  yards  before  a  new  thought  flashed 
upon  him,  and  quickened  his  pulse.  It  was  not  a 
pleasant  thought  because  it  checked  him,  and  he 
was  in  a  mood  to  feel  impatient  of  a  check.  But 
he  could  not  throw  it  off.  There  arose  within 
his  mind  a  picture  of  a  silent  room  in  a  cottage, — 
of  a  girl  sitting  by  the  hearth.  He  seemed  to 
see  quite  clearly  the  bent  head,  the  handsome 
face,  the  sad  eyes.  He  had  a  fancy  that  Liz  was 
not  with  her  to-night,  that  the  silence  of  the 
room  was  only  broken  by  the  soft  breathing  of 
the  child  upon  Joan's  knee. 

He  stopped  with  an  impatient  gesture. 

"What  was  I  thinking  of?"  he  demanded  of 
himself,  "  to  have  forgotten  her,  and  what  my 
madness  would  bring  upon  her?  I  am  a  selfish 
fool !  Let  it  go.  I  will  give  it  up.  I  will  stay 
in  Riggan  for  the  future — it  will  not  be  long,  and 
she  need  torture  herself  no  more.  I  will  give  it 
up.  Let  them  think  I  am  afraid  to  face  him.  I 
am  afraid — afraid  to  wound  the  woman  I — yes— 
the  woman  I  love" 


CHAPTER   XXIX 

Lying  in  Wait 

Liz  crept  close  to  the  window  and  looked  down 
the  road.  At  this  time  of  the  year  it  was  not 
often  that  the  sun  set  in  as  fair  a  sky.  In  October, 
Riggan  generally  shut  its  doors  against  damps 
and  mist,  and  turned  toward  its  fire  when  it  had 
one.  And  yet  Liz  had  hardly  seen  that  the  sun 
had  shone  at  all  to-day.  Still,  seeing  her  face 
a  passer-by  would  not  have  fancied  that  she 
was  chilled.  There  was  a  flush  upon  her  cheeks, 
and  her  eyes  were  more  than  usually  bright. 
She  was  watching  for  Joan  with  a  restless 
eagerness. 

"  She's  late,"  she  said.  "  I  mought  ha'  knowed 
she'd  be  late.  I  wisht  she'd  coom— I  do.  An' 
yet — an'  yet  I'm  feart.  I  wisht  it  wur  over ;  "  and 
she  twisted  her  fingers  together  nervously. 

She  had  laid  the  child  down  upon  the  bed,  and 
presently  it  roused  her  with  a  cry.  She  went  to 
it,  took  it  up  into  her  arms,  and,  carrying  it  to  the 
fire,  sat  down. 

"  Why  couldn't  tha  stay  asleep  ?"  she  said.  "  I 
nivver  seed  a  choild  loike  thee." 


246       THAT  LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

But  the  next  minute,  the  little  creature  whim« 
pering,  she  bent  down  in  impatient  repentance 
and  kissed  it,  whimpering  too. 

"  Dunnot,"  she  said.  "  I  conna  bear  to  hear 
thee.  Hush,  thee !  tha  goes  on  as  if  tha  knew. 
Eh !  but  I  mun  be  a  bad  lass.  Ay,  I'm  bad 
through  an'  through,  an'  I  conna  be  no  worse 
nor  I  am." 

She  did  not  kiss  the  child  again,  but  held  it 
in  her  listless  way  even  after  it  fell  asleep.  She 
rested  an  elbow  on  her  knee  and  her  chin 
upon  her  hand  while  her  tearful  eyes  searched 
the  fire,  and  thus  Joan  found  her  when  she  came 
in  at  dusk. 

"  Tha'rt  late  again,  Joan,"  she  said. 

"Ay,"  Joan  answered,  "  I'm  late." 

She  laid  her  things  aside  and  came  to  the  fire- 
light.  The  little  one  always  won  her  first  atten 
tion  when  she  came  from  her  day's  labor. 

"  Has  she  been  frettin'  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Ay,"  said  Liz,  "  she's  done  nowt  else  but  fret 
lately.  I  dunnot  know  what  ails  her." 

She  was  in  Joan's  arms  by  this  time,  and  Joan 
stood  looking  at  the  puny  face. 

"  She  is  na  well,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice.  "  She 
has  pain  as  we  know  nowt  on,  poor  little  lass. 
We  conna  help  her,  or  bear  it  fur  her.  We  would 
if  we  could,  little  un," — as  if  she  forgot  Liz's  pres 
ence. 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S       247 

"  Joan,"  Liz  faltered,  "  what  if  yo'  were  to  lose 
her?" 

"  I  hope  I  shanna.     I  hope  I  shanna." 

"  Yo'  could  na  bear  it?" 

"  Theer  is  na  mich  as  we  conna  bear." 

"  That's  true  enow,"  said  Liz.  "  I  wish  foak 
could  dee  o'  trouble." 

"  Theer's  more  nor  yo'  has  wished  th'  same," 
Joan  answered. 

She  thought  afterward  of  the  girl's  words  and 
remembered  how  she  looked  when  she  uttered 
them, — her  piteous  eyes  resting  on  the  embers, 
her  weak  little  mouth  quivering,  her  small  hands 
at  work, — but  when  she  heard  them,  she  only 
recognized  in  them  a  new  touch  of  the  old  petu 
lance  to  which  she  had  become  used. 

Joan  went  about  her  usual  tasks,  holding  the 
baby  in  her  arms.  She  prepared  the  evening 
meal  with  Liz's  assistance  and  the}'  sat  down  to 
eat  it  together.  But  Liz  had  little  appetite.  In 
deed  neither  of  them  ate  much  and  both  were 
more  than  usually  silent.  A  shadow  of  reserve 
had  lately  fallen  between  them. 

After  the  meal  was  ended  they  drew  their  seats 
to  the  hearth  again,  and  Liz  went  back  to  her 
brooding  over  the  fire.  Joan,  lulling  the  child, 
sat  and  watched  her.  All  Liz's  beauty  had  re 
turned  to  her.  Her  soft,  rough  hair  was  twisted 
into  a  curly  knot  upon  her  small  head,  her  pretty, 


248       THAT   LASS  O'  LOWRIE'S 

babyish  face  was  at  its  best  of  bloom  and  expres 
sion — that  absent,  subdued  look  was  becoming  to 
her. 

"  Theer's  honest  men  as  mought  ha'  loved  her," 
said  Joan,  inwardly.  "  Theer's  honest  men  as 
would  ha'  made  her  life  happy." 

It  was  just  as  she  was  thinking  this  that  Liz 
turned  round  to  her. 

"  If  she  lived  to  be  a  woman,"  with  a  gesture 
toward  the  child  ;  "  if  she  lived  to  be  a  woman,  do 
yo'  think  as  sh'd  remember  me  if — if  owt  should 
happen  to  me  now?" 

"  I  conna  tell,"  Joan  answered,  "  but  I'd  try  to 
mak'  her." 

"Would  yo'?"  and  then  she  dropped  her  face 
upon  her  hands.  "  It  ud  be  best  if  she'd  forget 
me,"  she  said.  "  It  ud  be  best  if  she'd  forget 
me." 

"  Nay,  Liz,"  said  Joan.     "  Tha'rt  out  o'  soarts." 

"Ay,  I  am,"  said  the  girl,  "  an'  I  need  be.  Eh, 
Joan !  tha'rt  a  good  wench.  I  wish  I  wur  loike 
thee." 

"  Tha  need  na,  lass." 

"  But  I  do.  Tha'd  nivver  go  wrong  i'  th' 
world.  Nowt  could  mak'  thee  go  wrong.  Tha'rt 
so  strong  like.  An'  tha'rt  patient,  too,  Joan,  an' 
noan  loike  the  rest  o'  women.  I  dunnot  think — 
if  owt  wur  to  happen  me  now — as  tha'd  ha'  hard 
thowts  o' me.  Wouldst  tha  ?"  wistfully. 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S       249 

"  Nay,  lass.  I've  been  fond  o*  thee,  an'  sorry 
fur  thee,  and  if  tha  wur  to  dee  tha  mayst  mak' 
sure  I'd  noan  be  hard  on  thee.  But  tha  art  na 
goin'  to  dee,  I  hope." 

To  her  surprise  the  girl  caught  her  hand,  and, 
pulling  it  down  upon  her  knee,  laid  her  cheek 
against  it  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  I  dunnot  know  ;  I  mought,  or — or — summat. 
But  nivver  tha  turn  agen  me,  Joan, — nivver  tha 
hate  me.  I  am  na  loike  thee, — I  wur  na  made 
loike  thee.  I  conna  stand  up  agen  things,  but  I 
dunnot  think  as  I'm  so  bad  as  foaks  say ! " 

When  this  impassioned  mood  passed  away,  she 
was  silent  again  for  a  long  time.  The  baby  fell 
asleep  upon  Joan's  breast,  but  she  did  not  move 
it, — she  liked  to  feel  it  resting  there ;  its  close 
presence  always  seemed  to  bring  her  peace.  At 
length,  however,  Liz  spoke  once  more. 

"  Wheer  wur  thy  feyther  goin'  wi'  Spring  an' 
Braddy  ?  "  she  asked. 

Joan  turned  a  pale  face  toward  her. 

"  Wheer  did  yo'  see  him  wi'  Spring  an' 
Braddy  ?  " 

"  Here,"  was  Liz's  reply.  "  He  wur  here  this 
afternoon  wi'  em.  They  did  na  coom  in,  though, 
— they  waited  i'  th'  road,  while  he  went  i'  th*  back 
room  theer  fur  summat.  I  think  it  wur  a  bottle. 
It  wur  that  he  coom  fur,  I  know,  fur  I  heerd 
Braddy  say  to  him,  'Hast  getten  it?'  an'  thy 


250       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

feyther  said,  'Ay,'  an'  th'  other  two  laughed  as  if 
they  wur  on  a  spree  o'  some  soart." 

Joan  rose  from  her  chair,  white  and  shaking. 

"  Tak'  th'  choild,"  she  said,  hoarsely.  "  I'm 
goin'  out." 

"  Out ! "  cried  Liz.  "  Nay,  dunnot  go  out. 
What  ails  thee,  Joan?" 

"  I  ha'  summat  to  do,"  said  Joan.  "  Stay  tha 
here  with  th'  choild."  And  almost  before  she 
finished  speaking  she  was  gone,  and  the  door  had 
closed  behind  her. 

There  would  be  three  of  them  against  one  man. 
She  walked  faster  as  she  thought  of  it,  and  her 
breath  was  drawn  heavily. 

Lowrie  bent  down  in  his  hiding-place,  smiling 
grimly.  He  knelt  upon  the  grass  behind  a  hedge 
at  the  road-side.  He  had  reached  the  place  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  before,  and  he  had  chosen  his 
position  as  coolly  as  if  he  had  been  sitting  down 
to  take  his  tramp  dinner  in  the  shade.  There  was 
a  gap  in  the  hedge  and  he  must  not  be  too  near 
to  it  or  too  far  from  it.  It  would  be  easier  to 
rush  through  this  gap  than  to  leap  the  hedge ; 
but  he  must  not  risk  being  seen.  The  corner 
where  the  other  men  lay  concealed  was  not  far 
above  him.  It  was  only  a  matter  of  a  few  yards, 
but  if  he  stood  to  wait  at  one  turn  and  the  en 
gineer  took  the  other,  the  game  would  escape. 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S       251 

So  he  had  placed  his  comrades  at  the  second,  and 
he  had  taken  the  first. 

"  I'd  loike  to  ha'  th'  first  yammer  at  him,"  he 
had  said,  savagely.  "  Yo'  can  coom  when  yo' 
hear  me." 

As  he  waited  by  the  hedge,  he  put  his  hand  out 
stealthily  toward  his  "  knob-stick "  and  drew  it 
nearer,  saying  to  himself: 

"  When  I  ha'  done  settlin'  wi'  him  fur  mysen,  I 
shall  ha'  a  bit  o'  an  account  to  settle  fur  her.  If 
it's  his  good  looks  as  she's  takken  wi',  she'll  be 
noan  so  fond  on  him  when  she  sees  him  next,  I'll 
warrant." 

He  had  hit  upon  the  greater  villainy  of  stop 
ping  short  of  murder, — if  he  could  contain  himself 
when  the  time  came. 

At  this  instant  a  sound  reached  his  ears 
which  caused  him  to  start.  He  bent  forward 
slightly  toward  the  gap  to  listen.  There  were 
footsteps  upon  the  road  above  him — footsteps 
that  sounded  familiar.  Clouds  had  drifted  across 
the  sky  and  darkened  it,  but  he  had  heard  that 
tread  too  often  to  mistake  it  now  when  every 
nerve  was  strung  to  its  highest  tension.  A  cold 
sweat  broke  out  upon  him  in  the  impotence  of 
his  wrath. 

"  It's  th'  lass  hersen,"  he  said.  "  She's  heerd 
summat,  an'  she's  as  good  as  her  word !  " — with 
an  oath. 


252        THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

He  got  up  and  stood  a  second  trembling  with 
rage.  He  drew  his  sleeve  across  his  forehead 
and  wiped  away  the  sweat,  and  then  turned  round 
sharply. 

"  I'll  creep  up  th'  road  an'  meet  her  afore  she 
reaches  th'  first  place,"  he  panted.  "  If  she  sees 
th'  lads,  it's  aw  up  wi'  us.  I'll  teach  her  summat 
as  she'll  noan  forget." 

He  was  out  into  the  Knoll  Road  in  a  minute 
more. 

"  I'll  teach  her  to  go  agen  me,"  he  muttered. 

"  I'll  teach  her,  by "  But  the  sentence  was 

never  ended.  There  was  a  murmur  he  did  not 
understand,  a  rush,  a  heavy  rain  of  blows,  a  dash 
of  something  in  his  face  that  scorched  like  liquid 
fire,  and  with  a  shriek,  he  fell  writhing. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

The  Slip  of  Paper 

A  MINUTE  after  there  rushed  past  Joan,  in  the 
darkness,  two  men, — stumbling  and  cursing  as 
they  went,  out  of  breath,  horror-stricken  and  run 
ning  at  the  top  of  their  speed. 

"  It  wur  Lowrie  hissen,  by ! "  she  heard  one 

say,  as  he  dashed  by. 

"  Fey ther !  Fey ther,  wheer  are  yo'  ?  Fey ther, 
are  yo'  nigh  me  ?  "  she  cried,  for  she  heard  both 
the  blows  and  the  shriek. 

But  there  came  no  answer  to  her  ear.  The 
rapid  feet  beating  upon  the  road,  their  echo  dy 
ing  in  the  distance,  made  the  only  sound  that 
broke  the  stillness.  There  was  not  even  a  groan. 
Yet  a  few  paces  from  her,  lay  a  battered,  bleed 
ing  form.  There  was  no  starlight  now,  she  could 
see  only  the  vague  outline  of  the  figure,  which 
might  be  that  of  either  one  man  or  the  other. 
For  an  instant,  the  similarity  in  stature  which  had 
deceived  his  blundering  companions,  deceived  her 
also ;  but  when  she  knelt  down  and  touched  the 
shoulder,  she  knew  it  was  not  the  master  who  lay 
before  her. 


254       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

"  It's  feyther  hissen,"  she  said,  and  then  she 
drew  away  her  hand,  shuddering.  "  It's  wet  wi' 
blood,"  she  said.  "  It's  wet  wi'  blood  !  " 

He  did  not  hear  her  when  she  spoke ;  he  was 
not  conscious  that  she  tried  to  raise  him  ;  his 
head  hung  forward  when  she  lifted  him ;  he  lay 
heavily,  and  without  motion,  upon  her  arms. 

"  They  ha'  killed  him ! "  she  said.  "  How  is  it, 
as  it  is  na  him  ?  " 

There  was  neither  light  nor  help  nearer  than 
"  The  Crown  "  itself,  and  when  her  brain  became 
clearer,  she  remembered  this.  Without  light  and 
assistance,  she  could  do  nothing ;  she  could  not 
even  see  what  hurt  he  had  sustained.  Dead  or 
dying,  he  must  lie  here  until  she  had  time  to  get 
help. 

She  took  off  her  shawl,  and  folding  it,  laid  his 
head  gently  upon  it.  Then  she  put  her  lips  to  his 
ear. 

"  Feyther,"  she  said,  "  I'm  goin'  to  bring  help 
to  thee.  If  tha  con  hear  me,  stir  thy  hond." 

He  did  not  stir  it,  so  she  disengaged  her  arm  as 
gently  as  possible,  and,  rising  to  her  feet,  went  on 
her  way. 

There  were  half  a  dozen  men  in  the  bar-room 
when  she  pushed  the  door  inward  and  stood 
upon  the  threshold.  They  looked  up  in  amaze 
ment. 

"  Those  on  yo'  as  want  to  help  a  deeing  mon," 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S       255 

she  said,  "  come  wi'  me.  My  feyther's  lyin'  in 
the  Knoll  Road,  done  to  death." 

All  were  astir  in  a  moment.  Lanterns  and  other 
necessaries  were  provided,  and  bearing  one  of 
these  lanterns  herself,  Joan  led  the  way. 

As  she  stepped  out  onto  the  pavement  a  man 
was  passing,  and,  attracted  by  the  confusion, 
turned  to  the  crowd : 

"  What  is  the  matter?  "  he  asked. 

"  There's  a  mon  been  killed  up  on  th'  Knoll 
Road,"  answered  one  of  the  colliers.  "  It's  this 
lass's  feyther,  Dan  Lowrie." 

The  man  strode  into  the  light  and  showed  an 
agitated  face. 

"  Killed  !  "  he  said,  "  Dan  Lowrie  ! " 

It  was  Fergus  Derrick. 

He  recognized  Joan  immediately,  and  went  to 
her. 

"  For  pity's  sake,"  he  exclaimed, "  don't  go  with 
them.  If  what  they  say  is  true,  this  is  no  place 
for  you.  Let  me  take  you  home.  You  ought 
not " 

"  It  wur  me,"  interrupted  Joan,  in  a  steady 
voice,  "  as  found  him." 

He  could  not  persuade  her  to  remain  behind, 
so  he  walked  on  by  her  side.  He  asked  her  no 
questions.  He  knew  enough  to  understand  that 
his  enemy  had  reaped  the  whirlwind  he  had  him 
self  sown. 


256       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

It  was  he  who  knelt  first  by  the  side  of  the 
prostrate  man,  holding  the  lantern  above  the 
almost  unrecognizable  face.  Then  he  would 
have  raised  the  lifeless  hand,  but  Joan,  who  had 
bent  down  near  him,  stopped  him  with  a  quick 
move. 

"  Dunnot  do  that,"  she  faltered,  and  when  he 
looked  up  in  surprise,  he  comprehended  her 
meaning,  even  before  she  added,  in  a  passionate 
undertone,  the  miserable  words: 

"  Ther's  blood  on  it,  as  might  ha'  bin  yo're 
own." 

"  Theer's  a  bottle  here,"  some  one  cried  out 
suddenly.  "  A  bottle  as  I  just  set  my  foot  OH. 
Chaps,  theer's  been  vitriol  throwed." 

"Ay,"  cried  another,  "  so  theer  has ;  chaps,  look 
yo'  here.  Th'  villains  has  vitriolled  him." 

They  laid  him  upon  the  shutter  they  had 
brought,  and  carried  him  homeward.  Joan 
and  Derrick  were  nearest  to  him  as  they 
walked. 

They  were  not  far  from  the  cottage,  and  it  was 
not  long  before  the  light  glimmered  through  the 
window  upon  them.  Seeing  it,  Joan  turned  to 
Derrick  suddenly. 

"  I  mun  hurry  on  before,"  she  said.  "  I  mun  go 
and  say  a  word  to  Liz.  Comin*  aw  at  onct  th' 
soight  ud  fear  her." 

Reaching  the  house,  she  pushed  the  door  open 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S       257 

and  went  in.     Everything  was  so  quiet  that  she 
fancied  the  girl  must  have  gone  to  bed. 

"  Liz,"  she  said  aloud.     "  Liz  !  " 

Her  voice  fell  with  an  echoing  sound  upon  the 
silent  room.  She  looked  at  the  bed  and  saw  the 
child  lying  there  asleep.  Liz  was  not  with  it. 
She  passed  quickly  into  the  room  adjoining  and 
glanced  around.  It  was  empty.  Moved  by  some 
impulse  she  went  back  to  the  bed,  and  in  bending 
over  the  child,  saw  a  slip  of  paper  pinned  upon 
its  breast,  and  upon  this  paper  Joan  read,  in  the 
sprawling,  uncertain  hand  she  knew  so  well : 

"Dunnot  be  hard  on  me,  Joan,  dunnot — Good-bye  /  " 

When  Derrick  entered  the  door,  he  found  Joan 
standing  alone  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  holding 
the  scrap  of  paper  in  her  hand. 
17 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

The  Last  Blow 

"  HE  won't  live,"  the  doctor  said  to  Derrick. 
"  He's  not  the  man  to  get  over  such  injuries,  pow 
erful  as  he  looks.  He  has  been  a  reckless,  drunken 
brute,  and  what  with  the  shock  and  reaction  noth 
ing  will  save  him.  The  clumsy  rascals  who  at 
tacked  him  meant  to  do  him  harm  enough,  but 
they  have  done  him  more  than  they  intended,  or 
at  least  the  man's  antecedents  will  help  them  to  a 
result  they  may  not  have  aimed  at.  We  may  as 
well  tell  the  girl,  I  suppose — fine  creature,  that 
girl,  by  the  way.  She  won't  have  any  sentimen 
tal  regrets.  It's  a  good  riddance  for  her,  to  judge 
from  what  I  know  of  them." 

"  I  will  tell  her,"  said  Derrick. 

She  listened  to  him  with  no  greater  show  of 
emotion  than  an  increased  pallor.  She  remem 
bered  the  wounded  man  only  as  a  bad  husband 
and  a  bad  father.  Her  life  would  have  been  less 
hard  to  bear  if  he  had  died  years  ago,  but  now 
that  death  stood  near  him,  a  miserable  sense  of 
desolateness  fell  upon  her,  inconsistent  as  such  a 
feeling  might  seem. 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S       259 

The  village  was  full  of  excitement  during  this 
week.  Everybody  was  ready  with  suggestions 
and  conjectures,  everybody  wanted  to  account 
for  the  assault.  At  first  there  seemed  no  ac 
counting  for  it  at  all,  but  at  length  some  one 
recollected  that  Lowrie  had  been  last  seen  with 
Spring  and  Braddy.  They  had  "getten  up  a 
row  betwixt  theirsens,  and  t'others  had  punsed 
him." 

The  greatest  mystery  was  the  use  of  vitriol.  It 
could  only  be  decided  that  it  had  not  been  an  or 
dinary  case  of  neighborly  "  punsing,"  and  that 
there  must  have  been  a  "  grudge  "  in  the  matter. 
Spring  and  Braddy  had  disappeared,  and  all 
efforts  to  discover  their  whereabouts  were  un 
availing. 

On  the  subject  of  Liz's  flight  Joan  was  silent, 
but  it  did  not  remain  a  secret  many  hours.  A  col 
lier's  wife  had  seen  her  standing,  crying,  and  hold 
ing  a  little  bundle  on  her  arm  at  the  corner  of  a 
lane,  and  having  been  curious  enough  to  watch, 
had  also  seen  Landsell  join  her  a  few  minutes  later. 

"  She  wur  whimperin*  afore  he  coom,"  said  the 
woman,  "  but  she  cried  i'  good  earnest  when  he 
spoke  to  her,  an'  talked  to  him  an'  hung  back  as 
if  she  could  na  mak'  up  her  moind  whether  to  go 
or  no.  She  wur  a  soft  thing,  that  wench,  it  wur 
allus  whichivver  way  th'  wind  blowed  wi'  her.  I 
could  nivver  see  what  that  lass  o'  Lowrie's  wanted 


260       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

wi'  her.  Now  she's  getten  th'  choild  on  her 
honds." 

The  double  shock  had  numbed  Joan.  She  went 
about  the  place  and  waited  upon  her  father  in  a 
dull,  mechanical  way.  She  said  but  little  to  the 
curious  crowd,  who,  on  pretence  of  being  neigh 
borly,  flocked  to  the  house.  She  had  even  had 
very  little  to  say  to  Anice.  Perhaps  after  all,  her 
affection  for  poor  Liz  had  been  a  stronger  one 
than  she  had  thought. 

"  I  think,"  Grace  said  gently  to  Anice,  "  that 
she  does  not  exactly  need  us  yet." 

He  made  the  remark  in  the  Rector's  presence 
and  the  Reverend  Harold  did  not  agree  with 
him. 

"  I  am  convinced  that  you  are  mistaken,  Grace," 
he  said.  "  You  are  a  little  too — well,  too  del 
icately  metaphysical  for  these  people.  You  have 
sensitive  fancies  about  them,  and  they  are  not  a 
sensitive  class.  What  they  want  is  good  strong 
doctrine,  and  a  certain  degree  of  wholesome 
frankness.  They  need  teaching.  That  young 
woman,  now — it  seems  to  me  that  this  is  the  time 
to  rouse  her  to  a  sense  of  her — her  moral  con 
dition.  She  ought  to  be  roused,  and  so  ought  the 
man.  It  is  a  great  pity  that  he  is  unconscious." 

Of  Joan's  strange  confession  of  faith,  Anice 
had  told  him  something,  but  he  had  been  rather 
inclined  to  pronounce  it  "  emotional,"  and  some- 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S       261 

how  or  other  could  not  quite  divest  himself  of 
the  idea  that  she  needed  the  special  guidance  of 
a  well-balanced  and  experienced  mind.  The 
well-balanced  and  experienced  mind  in  view  was 
his  own,  though  of  course  he  was  not  aware  of 
the  fact  that  he  would  not  have  been  satisfied 
with  that  of  any  other  individual.  He  was  all 
the  more  disinclined  to  believe  in  Joan's  conver 
sion  because  his  interviews  with  her  continued  to 
be  as  unsatisfactory  as  ever.  Her  manner  had 
altered  ;  she  had  toned  down  somewhat,  but  she 
still  caused  him  to  feel  ill  at  ease.  If  she  did  not 
defy  him  any  longer  or  set  his  teachings  at 
naught,  her  grave  eyes,  resting  on  him  silently, 
had  sometimes  the  effect  of  making  his  words  fail 
him ;  which  was  a  novel  experience  with  the 
Rector. 

In  a  few  days  Lowrie  began  to  sink  visibly. 
As  the  doctor  predicted,  the  reaction  was  power 
ful,  and  remedies  were  of  no  avail.  He  lay  upon 
the  bed,  at  times  unconscious,  at  times  tossing  to 
and  fro  in  delirium.  During  her  watching  at  the 
bedside,  Joan  learned  the  truth.  Sometimes  he 
fancied  himself  tramping  the  Knoll  Road  home- 
ward  through  the  rain,  and  then  he  muttered 
sullenly  of  the  "  day  "  that  was  coming  to  him, 
and  the  vengeance  he  was  returning  to  take  ; 
sometimes  he  went  through  the  scene  with  Joan 


262        THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

herself,  and  again,  he  waited  behind  the  hedge 
for  his  enemy,  one  moment  exultant,  the  next 
striving  to  struggle  to  his  feet  with  curses  upon 
his  lips  and  rage  in  his  heart,  as  he  caught  the 
sound  of  the  advancing  steps  he  knew  so  well. 
As  he  went  over  these  scenes  again  and  again, 
it  was  plain  enough  to  the  listener  that  his  ven 
geance  had  fallen  upon  his  own  head. 

The  day  after  he  received  his  hurts  a  collier 
dropped  into  "  The  Crown  "  with  a  heavy  stick 
in  his  hand. 

"  I  fun  this  knob-stick  nigh  a  gap  i'  th'  hedge 
on  th'  Knoll  Road,"  he  said.  "  It  wur  na  fur  fro* 
wheer  they  fun  Lowrie.  Happen  them  chaps 
laid  i'  wait  fur  him  an'  it  belongs  to  one  o*  'em." 

"  Let's  ha'  a  look  at  it,"  said  a  young  miner, 
and  on  its  being  handed  to  him  he  inspected  it 
closely. 

"Why!"  he  exclaimed.  "It's  Lowrie's  own. 
I  seed  him  wi'  it  th'  day  afore  he  wur  hurt.  I 
know  th'  shape  o'  th'  knob.  How  could  it  ha' 
coom  theer  ?  " 

But  nobody  could  guess.  It  was  taken  to  Joan 
and  she  listened  to  the  story  without  comment. 
There  was  no  reason  why  they  should  be  told 
what  she  had  already  discovered. 

When  Lowrie  died,  Anice  and  Grace  were  in 
the  room  with  Joan.  After  the  first  two  days  the 
visitors  had  dropped  off.  They  had  satisfied 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S       263 

their  curiosity.  Lowrie  was  not  a  favorite,  and 
Joan  had  always  seemed  to  stand  apart  from  her 
fellows,  so  they  were  left  to  themselves. 

Joan  was  standing  near  the  bed  when  there 
came  to  him  his  first  and  last  gleam  of  conscious 
ness.  The  sun  was  setting,  and  its  farewell  glow 
streaming  through  the  window  fell  upon  his  dis 
figured  face  and  sightless  eyes.  He  roused  him 
self,  moving  uneasily. 

"  What's  up  wi*  me  ?  "  he  muttered.  "  I  conna 
see — I  conna — " 

Joan  stepped  forward. 

"  Feyther,"  she  said. 

Then  memory  seemed  to  return  to  him.  An 
angry  light  shot  across  his  face.  He  flung  out 
his  hands  and  groaned : 

"What!"  he  cried,  "  tha  art  theer,  art  tha?" 
and  helpless  and  broken  as  he  was,  he  wore  that 
moment  a  look  Joan  had  long  ago  learned  to 
understand. 

"  Ay,  feyther,"  she  answered. 

It  appeared  as  if,  during  the  few  moments  in 
which  he  lay  gasping,  a  full  recognition  of  the 
fact  that  he  had  been  baffled  and  beaten  after  all 
—that  his  plotting  had  been  of  no  avail — forced 
itself  upon  him.  He  made  an  effort  to  speak 
once  or  twice  and  failed,  but  at  last  the  words 
came. 

"Tha  went  agen   me,   did   tha?"   he  panted. 


264       THAT  LASS  O'   LOWRIE'S 

"  Dom  thee !"  and  with  a  struggle  to  summon  all 
his  strength,  he  raised  himself,  groping,  struck  at 
her  with  his  clenched  hand,  and  failing  to  reach 
her,  fell  forward  with  his  face  upon  the  bed. 

It  was  all  over  when  they  raised  him  and  laid 
him  back  again.  Joan  stood  upright,  trembling 
a  little,  but  otherwise  calm. 


CHAPTER  XXXff 
"Turned  Metbody!" 

IT  had  been  generally  expected  that  when  aR 
was  over  the  cottage  upon  the  Knoll  Road  would 
be  closed  and  deserted,  but  some  secret  fancy 
held  Joan  to  the  spot.  Perhaps  the  isolation 
suited  her  mood ;  perhaps  the  mere  sense  of 
familiarity  gave  her  comfort. 

"  I  should  na  be  less  lonely  any  wheer  else,"  she 
said  to  Anice  Barholm.  "  Theer's  more  here  as  I 
feel  near  to  than  i'  any  other  place.  I  ha'  no 
friends,  yo'  know.  As  to  th'  choild,  I  con  carry  it 
to  Thwaite's  wife  i'  th'  mornin'  when  I  go  to  th' 
pit,  an'  she'll  look  after  it  till  neet,  for  a  trifle. 
She's  getten  childern  o'  her  own,  and  knows  their 
ways." 

So  she  went  backward  and  forward  night  and 
morning  with  her  little  burden  in  her  arms.  The 
child  was  a  frail,  tiny  creature,  never  strong,  and 
often  suffering,  and  its  very  frailty  drew  Joan 
nearer  to  it.  It  was  sadly  like  Liz,  pretty  and  in 
fantine.  Many  a  rough  but  experienced  mother, 
seeing  it,  prophesied  that  its  battle  with  life 
would  be  brief.  With  the  pretty  face,  it  had  in« 


266       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

herited  also  the  helpless,  irresolute,  appealing 
look.  Joan  saw  this  in  the  baby's  eyes  sometimes 
and  was  startled  at  its  familiarity ;  even  the  low, 
fretted  cry  had  in  it  something  that  was  painfully 
like  its  girl-mother's  voice.  More  than  once  a 
sense  of  fear  had  come  upon  Joan  when  she  heard 
and  recognized  it.  But  her  love  only  seemed  to 
strengthen  with  her  dread. 

Day  by  day  those  who  worked  with  her  felt 
more  strongly  the  change  developing  so  subtly 
in  the  girl.  The  massive  beauty  which  had  al 
most  seemed  to  scorn  itself  was  beginning  to 
wear  a  different  aspect;  the  defiant  bitterness  of 
look  and  tone  was  almost  a  thing  of  the  past ;  the 
rough,  contemptuous  speech  was  less  scathing 
and  more  merciful  when  at  rare  intervals  it  broke 
forth. 

"  Summat  has  coom  over  her,"  they  said  among 
themselves.  "  Happen  it  wur  trouble.  She  wur 
different,  somehow." 

They  were  somewhat  uneasy  under  this  altera 
tion  ;  but,  on  the  whole,  the  general  feeling  was 
by  no  means  unfriendly.  Time  had  been  when 
they  had  known  Joan  Lowrie  only  as  a  "  lass " 
who  held  herself  aloof,  and  yet  in  a  manner  over 
ruled  them ;  but  in  these  days  more  than  one 
stunted,  overworked  girl  or  woman  found  her 
hard  task  rendered  easier  by  Joan's  strength  and 
swiftness. 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S       267 

It  was  true  that  his  quiet  and  unremitted  efforts 
had  smoothed  Grace's  path  to  some  extent. 
There  were  ill-used  women  whom  he  had  helped 
and  comforted ;  there  were  neglected  children 
whose  lives  he  had  contrived  to  brighten ;  there 
were  unbelievers  whose  scoffing  his  gentle  sim 
plicity  and  long-suffering  had  checked  a  little. 
He  could  be  regarded  no  longer  with  contempt 
in  Riggan  ;  he  even  had  his  friends  there. 

Among  those  who  still  mildly  jeered  at  the 
little  Parson  stood  foremost,  far  more  through 
vanity  than  malice,  "  Owd  Sammy  Craddock."  A 
couple  of  months  after  Lowrie's  death,  "Owd 
Sammy  "  had  sauntered  down  to  the  mine  one 
day,  and  was  entertaining  a  group  of  admirers 
when  Grace  went  by. 

It  chanced  that,  for  some  reason  best  known  to 
himself,  Sammy  was  by  no  means  in  a  good  humor. 
Something  had  gone  wrong  at  home  or  abroad, 
and  his  grievance  had  rankled  and  rendered  him 
unusually  contumacious. 

Nearing  the  group,  Grace  looked  up  with  a 
faint  but  kindly  smile. 

"  Good-morning !  "  he  said  ;  "  a  pleasant  day, 
friends ! " 

"  Owd  Sammy"  glanced  down  at  him  with  con 
descending  tolerance.  He  had  been  talking  him 
self,  and  the  greeting  had  broken  in  upon  his  elo 
quence. 


268       THAT  LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

"  Which  on  us,"  he  asked  dryly  ;  "  which  on  us 
said  it  wur  na  ?  " 

A  few  paces  from  the  group  of  idlers  Joan 
Lowrie  stood  at  work.  Some  of  the  men  had 
noted  her  presence  when  they  lounged  by,  but  in 
the  enjoyment  of  their  gossip,  they  had  forgotten 
her  again.  She  had  seen  Grace  too ;  she  had 
heard  his  greeting  and  the  almost  brutal  laugh 
that  followed  it;  and,  added  to  this,  she  had 
caught  a  passing  glimpse  of  the  Curate's  face.  She 
dropped  her  work,  and,  before  the  laugh  had  died 
out,  stood  up  confronting  the  loungers. 

"  If  theer  is  a  mon  among  yo'  as  he  has 
harmed,"  she  said  ;  "  if  theer's  one  among  yo'  as 
he's  ivver  done  a  wrong  to,  let  that  mon  speak 
up." 

It  was  "  Owd  Sammy  "  who  was  the  first  to  re 
cover  himself.  Probably  he  remembered  the 
power  he  prided  himself  upon  wielding  over  the 
weaker  sex.  He  laid  aside  his  pipe  for  a  moment 
and  tried  sarcasm, — an  adaptation  of  the  same 
sarcasm  he  had  tried  upon  the  Curate. 

"  Which  on  us  said  theer  wur?  "  he  asked. 

Joan  turned  her  face,  pale  with  repressed  emo 
tion,  toward  him. 

"  There  be  men  here  as  I  would  scarce  ha'  be 
lieved  could  ha'  had  much  agen  him.  I  see  one 
mon  here  as  has  a  wife  as  lay  nigh  death  a  month 
or  so  ago,  an'  it  were  the  Parson  as  went  to  see 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S       269 

her  day  after  day,  an'  tuk  her  help  and  comfort. 
Theer's  another  mon  here  as  had  a  little  tin  to  dee, 
an'  when  it  deed,  it  wur  th'  Parson  as  knelt  by  its 
bed  an'  held  its  hond  an'  talkt  to  it  when  it  were 
feart.  Theer's  other  men  here  as  had  help  fro' 
him  as  they  did  na  know  of,  an'  it  wur  help  from 
a  mon  as  wur  na  far  fro'  a-bein'  as  poor  an'  hard 
worked  i'  his  way  as  they  are  i'  theirs.  Happen 
th'  mon  I  speak  on  dunnot  know  much  about  th' 
sick  wife,  an'  deein  choild,  an'  what  wur  done  for 
'em,  an'  if  they  dunnot,  it's  th'  Parson's  fault." 

"Why!"  broke  in  "  Owd  Sammy."  "Blame 
me,  if  tha  art  na  turned  Methody !  Blame  me," 
in  amazement,  "if  tha  art  na!" 

"  Nay,"  her  face  softening ;  "  it  is  na  Methody 
so  much.  Happen  I'm  turnin'  woman,  fur  I 
conna  abide  to  see  a  hurt  gi'en  to  them  as  has  na 
earned  it.  That  wur  why  I  spoke.  I  ha'  towd 
yo'  th'  truth  o'  th'  little  chap  yo'  jeered  at  an* 
throw'd  his  words  back  to." 

Thus  it  became  among  her  companions  a  com 
monly  accepted  belief  that  Joan  Lowrie  had 
turned  "  Methody."  They  could  find  no  other 
solution  to  her  championship  of  the  Parson. 

"Is  it  true  as  tha's  j'ined  th'  Methodys?" 
Thwaite's  wife  asked  Joan,  somewhat  nervously. 

She  had  learned  to  be  fond  of  the  girl,  and  did 
not  like  the  idea  of  believing  in  her  defection. 

"  No,"  she  answered,  "  it  is  na." 


270       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

The  woman  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"  I  thowt  it  wur  na,"  she  said.  "  I  towd  th' 
Maxys  as  I  did  na  believe  it  when  they  browt 
th'  tale  to  me.  They're  powerful  fond  o'  tale- 
bearin',  that  Maxy  lot." 

Joan  stopped  in  her  play  with  the  child. 

"  They  dunnot  understand,"  she  said,  "  that's 
aw.  I  ha'  learned  to  think  different,  an'  believe  i* 
things  as  I  did  na  use  to  believe  in.  Happen 
that's  what  they  mean  by  talkin'  o'  th'  Methodys." 

People  learned  no  more  of  the  matter  than  this. 
They  felt  that  in  some  way  Joan  had  separated 
herself  from  their  ranks,  but  they  found  it  trouble- 
some  to  work  their  way  to  any  more  definite  con 
clusion. 

"  Hast  heard  about  that  lass  o'  Lowrie's  ?  "  they 
said  to  one  another ;  "  hoo's  takken  a  new  turn 
sin'  Lowrie  deed ;  hoo  allus  wur  a  queer-loike, 
high-handed  wench." 

After  Lowrie's  death,  Anice  Barholm  and  Joan 
were  oftener  together  than  ever.  What  had  at 
first  been  friendship  had  gradually  become  affec 
tion. 

"  I  think,"  Anice  said  to  Grace,  "  that  Joan 
must  go  away  from  here  and  find  a  new  life." 

"  That  is  the  only  way,"  he  answered.  "  In 
this  old  one  there  has  been  nothing  but  misery 
for  her,  and  bitterness  and  pain." 

Fergus  Derrick  was  sitting  at  a  table  turning 


THAT   LASS  O'   LOWRIE'S       271 

over  a  book  of  engravings.  He  looked  up 
sharply. 

"Where  can  you  find  a  new  life  for  her?  "he 
asked.  "  And  how  can  you  help  her  to  it  ?  One 
dare  not  offer  her  even  a  semblance  of  assist 
ance." 

They  had  not  spoken  to  him,  but  he  had  heard, 
as  he  always  heard,  everything  connected  with 
Joan  Lowrie.  He  was  always  restless  and  eager 
where  she  was  concerned.  All  intercourse  be 
tween  them  seemed  to  be  at  an  end.  Without 
appearing  to  make  an  effort  to  do  so,  she  kept  out 
of  his  path.  Try  as  he  might,  he  could  not  reach 
her.  At  last  it  had  come  to  this:  he  was  no 
longer  dallying  upon  the  brink  of  a  great  and 
dangerous  passion, — it  had  overwhelmed  him. 

"  One  cannot  even  approach  her,"  he  said  again. 

Anice  regarded  him  with  a  shade  of  pity  in  her 
face. 

"  The  time  is  coming  when  it  will  not  be  so," 
she  said. 

The  night  before  Joan  Lowrie  had  spent  an 
hour  with  her.  She  had  come  in  on  her  way 
from  her  work,  before  going  to  Thwaite's,  and 
had  knelt  down  upon  the  hearth-rug  to  warm 
herself.  There  had  been  no  light  in  the  room 
but  that  of  the  fire,  and  its  glow,  falling  upon  her 
face,  had  revealed  to  Anice  something  like  hag- 
gardness. 


272        THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

"  Joan,"  she  said,  "  are  you  ill  ?  " 

Joan  stirred  a  little  uneasily,  but  did  not  look 
at  her  as  she  answered  : 

"  Nay,  I  am  na  ill ;  I  nivver  wur  ill  i'  my  loife." 

"  Then,"  said  Anice,  "  what— what  is  it  that  I 
see  in  your  face  ?  " 

There  was  a  momentary  tremor  of  the  finely 
moulded,  obstinate  chin. 

"  I'm  tired  out,"  Joan  answered.  "  That's  all," 
and  her  hand  fell  upon  her  lap. 

Anice  turned  to  the  fire. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  asked,  almost  in  a  whisper. 

Joan  looked  up  at  her, — not  defiant,  not  bitter 
not  dogged, — simply  in  appeal  against  her  own 
despair. 

"  Is  na  theer  a  woman's  place  fur  me  i*  th' 
world  ?  Is  it  allus  to  be  this  way  wi'  me  ?  Con  I 
nivver  reach  no  higher,  strive  as  I  will,  pray  as  I 
will, — fur  I  have  prayed  ?  Is  na  theer  a  woman's 
place  fur  me  i'  th'  world  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Anice,  "  I  am  sure  there  is." 

"  I've  thowt  as  theer  mun  be  somewheer. 
Sometimes  I've  felt  sure  as  theer  mun  be,  an' 
then  agen  I've  been  beset  so  sore  that  I  ha*  almost 
gi'en  it  up.  If  there  is  such  a  place  fur  me  I  mun 
find  it — I  mun  ! " 

"  You  will  find  it,"  said  Anice.  "  Some  day, 
surely." 

Anice    thought    of    all    this    again    when    she 


THAT   LASS   O»   LOWRIE'S       273 

glanced  at  Derrick.  Derrick  was  more  than 
usually  disturbed  to-day.  He  had  for  some  time 
been  working  his  way  to  an  important  decision, 
fraught  with  some  annoyance  and  anxiety  to  him 
self.  There  was  to  be  a  meeting  of  the  owners  in 
a  few  weeks,  and  at  this  meeting  he  had  deter 
mined  to  take  a  firm  stand. 

"  The  longer  I  remain  in  my  present  position, 
the  more  fully  I  am  convinced  of  the  danger  con 
stantly  threatening  us,"  he  said  to  Anice.  "  I  am 
convinced  that  the  present  system  of  furnaces  is 
the  cause  of  more  explosions  than  are  generally 
attributed  to  it.  The  mine  here  is  a  '  fiery  '  one, 
as  they  call  it,  and  yet  day  after  day  goes  by  and 
no  precautions  are  taken.  There  are  poor  fellows 
working  under  me  whose  existence  means  bread 
to  helpless  women  and  children.  I  hold  their 
lives  in  trust,  and  if  I  am  not  allowed  to  place 
one  frail  barrier  between  them  and  sudden  death, 
I  will  lead  them  into  peril  no  longer, — I  will  re 
sign  my  position.  At  least  I  can  do  that." 

The  men  under  him  worked  with  a  dull,  heavy 
daring,  born  of  long  use  and  a  knowledge  of  their 
own  helplessness  against  their  fate.  There  was 
not  one  among  them  who  did  not  know  that  in 
going  down  the  shaft  to  his  labor,  he  might  be 
leaving  the  light  of  day  behind  him  forever.  But 
Seeing  the  blue  sky  vanish  from  sight  thus  during 
six  days  of  fifty-two  weeks  in  the  year,  engen< 

18 


274       THAT   LASS  O1   LOWRIE'S 

dered  a  kind  of  hard  indifference.  Explosions 
had  occurred,  and  might  occur  again ;  dead  men 
had  been  carried  up  to  be  stretched  on  the  green 
earth, — men  crushed  out  of  all  semblance  to  hu 
manity  ;  some  of  themselves  bore  the  marks  of 
terrible  maiming ;  but  it  was  an  old  story,  and 
they  had  learned  to  face  the  same  hazard  reck 
lessly. 

With  Fergus  Derrick,  however,  it  was  a  differ 
ent  matter.  It  was  he  who  must  lead  these  men 
into  new  fields  of  danger. 


CHAPTER  XXX Iff 

Fate 

THE  time  came,  before  many  days,  when  the 
last  tie  that  bound  Joan  to  her  present  life  was 
broken.  The  little  one,  who  from  the  first  had 
clung  to  existence  with  a  frail  hold,  at  last  loosened 
its  weak  grasp.  It  had  been  ill  for  several  days, 
— so  ill  that  Joan  had  remained  at  home  to  nurse 
it, — and  one  night,  sitting  with  it  upon  her  knee  in 
her  accustomed  place,  she  saw  a  change  upon  the 
small  face. 

It  had  been  moaning  continuously,  and  suddenly 
the  plaintive  sound  ceased.  Joan  bent  over  it. 
She  had  been  holding  the  tiny  hand  as  she  always 
did,  and  at  this  moment  the  soft  fingers  closed 
upon  one  of  her  own  quietly.  She  was  quite 
alone,  and  for  an  instant  there  was  a  deep  silence. 
After  her  first  glance  at  the  tiny  creature,  she 
broke  this  silence  herself. 

"  Little  lass,"  she  said  in  a  whisper,  "  what  ails 
thee?  Is  thy  pain  o'er?" 

As  she  looked  again  at  the  baby  face  upturned 
as  if  in  silent  answer,  the  truth  broke  in  upon  her. 

Folding  her  arms  around  the  little  form,  she 


276       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

laid  her  head  upon  its  breast  and  wept  aloud, — 
wept  as  she  had  never  wept  before.  Then  she 
laid  the  child  upon  a  pillow  and  covered  its  face. 
Liz's  last  words  returned  to  her  with  a  double 
force.  It  had  not  lived  to  forget  or  blame  her. 
Where  was  Liz  to-night, — at  this  hour,  when  her 
child  was  so  safe  ? 

The  next  morning,  on  her  way  downstairs  to 
the  breakfast-room,  Anice  Barholm  was  met  by  a 
servant. 

"The  young  woman  from  the  mines  would  like 
to  see  you,  Miss,"  said  the  girl. 

Anice  found  Joan  awaiting  her  below. 

"  I  ha'  come  to  tell  yo',"  she  said,  "  that  th'  little 
un  deed  at  midneet.  Theer  wur  no  one  I  could 
ca'  in.  I  sat  alone  wi'  it  i'  th'  room  aw  th'  neet, 
an'  then  I  left  it  to  come  here." 

Anice  and  Thwaite's  wife  returned  home  with 
her.  What  little  there  was  to  be  done,  they  re 
mained  to  do.  But  this  was  scarcely  more  than 
to  watch  with  her  until  the  pretty  baby  face  was 
hidden  away  from  human  sight. 

When  all  was  over,  Joan  became  restless.  The 
presence  of  the  child  had  saved  her  from  utter 
desolation,  and  now  that  it  was  gone,  the  empti 
ness  of  the  house  chilled  her.  At  the  last,  when 
her  companions  were  about  to  leave  her,  she 
broke  down. 

"  I  conna  bear  it,"  she  said.    "  I  will  go  wi'  y<»Yf 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S       277 

Thwaite's  wife  had  proposed  before  that  she 
should  make  her  home  with  them ;  and  now,  when 
Mrs.  Thwaite  returned  to  Riggan,  Joan  accom 
panied  her,  and  the  cottage  was  locked  up. 

This  alteration  changed  greatly  the  routine  of 
her  life.  There  were  children  in  the  Thwaite 
household — half  a  dozen  of  them — who,  having 
overcome  their  first  awe  of  her,  had  learned  be 
fore  the  baby  died  to  be  fond  of  Joan.  Her  hand 
some  face  attracted  them  when  they  ceased  to 
fear  its  novelty ;  and  the  hard-worked  mother 
said  to  her  neighbors : 

"  She's  getten  a  way  wi'  childer,  somehow, — 
that  lass  o'  Lowrie's.  Yo'd  wonder  if  yo'  could 
see  her  wi'  'em.  She's  mony  a  bit  o'  help  to  me." 

But  as  time  progressed,  Anice  Barholm  noted 
the  constant  presence  of  that  worn  look  upon  her 
face.  Instead  of  diminishing,  it  grew  and  deep 
ened.  Even  Derrick,  who  met  her  so  rarely,  saw 
it  when  he  passed  her  in  the  street. 

"  She  is  not  ill,  is  she  ?  "  he  asked  Anice  once, 
abruptly. 

Anice  shook  her  head. 

"  No,  she  is  not  ill." 

"  Then  she  has  some  trouble  that  nobody  knows 
about,"  he  said.  "  What  a  splendid  creature  she 
is  !  "  impetuously  — "  and  how  incomprehensi 
ble!" 

His  eyes  chanced  to  meet  Anice's,  and  a  dark 


278       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

flush  swept  over  his  face.  He  got  up  almost  im. 
mediately  after  and  began  to  pace  the  room,  as 
was  his  habit. 

"  Next  week  the  crisis  will  come  at  the  mines," 
he  said.  "  I  wonder  how  it  will  end  for  me." 

"  You  are  still  determined  ?  "  said  Anice. 

"  Yes,  I  am  still  determined.  I  wish  it  were 
over.  Perhaps  there  will  be  a  Fate  in  it " — his 
voice  lowering  itself  as  he  added  this  last  sen 
tence. 

"A  Fate?"  said  Anice. 

"  I  am  growing  superstitious  and  full  of  fan 
cies,"  he  said.  "  I  do  not  trust  to  myself,  as  I 
once  did.  I  should  like  Fate  to  bear  the  respon 
sibility  of  my  leaving  Riggan  or  remaining  in  it." 

"  And  if  you  leave  it?  "  asked  Anice. 

For  an  instant  he  paused  in  his  walk,  with  an 
uncertain  air.  But  he  shook  this  uncertainty  off 
with  a  visible  effort,  the  next  moment. 

"  If  I  leave  it,  I  do  not  think  I  shall  return,  and 
Fate  will  have  settled  a  long  unsettled  question 
for  me." 

"  Don't  leave  it  to  Fate,"  said  Anice  in  a  low 
tone.  "  Settle  it  for  yourself.  It  does  not — it  is 
not — it  looks " 

"  It  looks  cowardly,"  he  interrupted  her.  "  So 
it  does,  and  so  it  is.  God  knows  I  never  felt  my- 
self  so  great  a  coward  before  !  " 

He  had  paused  again.     This  time  he  stood  be- 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S       279 

fore  her.  The  girl's  grave,  delicate  face  turned 
to  meet  his  glance  and  seeing  it,  a  thought  seemed 
to  strike  him. 

"  Anice,"  he  said,  the  dark  flush  rising  afresh. 
"  I  promised  you  that  if  the  time  should  ever 
come  when  I  needed  help  that  it  was  possible  you 
might  give,  I  should  not  be  afraid  to  ask  you  for 
it.  I  am  coming  to  you  for  help.  Not  now — 
some  day  not  far  distant.  That  is  why  I  remind 
you  of  the  compact." 

"  I  did  not  need  reminding,"  she  said  to  him. 

"  I  might  have  known  that,"  he  answered, — "  I 
think  I  did  know  it.  But  let  us  make  the  com- 
pact  over  again." 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  him,  and  he  took  it 
eagerly. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

The  Decision 

THE  owners  of  the  Riggan  collieries  held  their 
meeting.  That  a  person  in  their  employ  should 
differ  from  them  boldly,  and  condemn  their  course 
openly,  was  an  extraordinary  event ;  that  a  young 
man  in  the  outset  of  his  career  should  dare  so 
much  was  unprecedented.  It  would  be  a  ruinous 
thing,  they  said  among  themselves,  for  so  young 
a  man  to  lose  so  important  a  position  on  the  very 
threshold  of  his  professional  life,  and  they  were 
convinced  that  his  knowledge  of  this  would  re 
strain  him.  But  they  were  astounded  to  find 
that  it  did  not. 

He  brought  his  plans  with  him,  and  laid  them 
before  them.  They  were  plans  for  the  abolition 
of  old  and  dangerous  arrangements,  for  the  ameli 
oration  of  the  condition  of  the  men  who  labored 
at  the  hourly  risk  of  their  lives,  and  for  rendering 
this  labor  easier.  Especially,  there  were  plans 
for  a  newer  system  of  ventilation — proposing  the 
substitution  of  fans  for  the  long-used  furnace. 
One  or  two  of  the  younger  men  leaned  toward 
their  adoption.  But  the  men  with  the  greatest 


THAT  LASS  O'   LOWRIE'S       281 

influence  were  older,  and  less  prone  to  the  en 
couragement  of  novelty. 

"  It's  all  nonsense,"  said  one.  "  Furnaces  have 
been  used  ever  since  the  mines  were  opened,  and 
as  to  the  rest — it  arises,  I  suppose,  from  the  com 
plaints  of  the  men.  They  always  will  complain 
— they  always  did." 

"  So  far  they  have  had  reason  for  complaint," 
remarked  Derrick.  "  As  you  say,  there  have  been 
furnaces  ever  since  there  have  been  mines,  and 
there  have  also  been  explosions  which  may  in 
many  cases  be  attributed  to  them.  There  was  an 
explosion  at  Browton  a  month  ago  which  was  to 
some  extent  a  mystery,  but  there  were  old  min 
ers  who  understood  it  well  enough.  The  return 
air,  loaded  with  gas,  had  ignited  at  the  furnace, 
and  the  result  was  that  forty  dead  and  wounded 
men  were  carried  up  the  shaft,  to  be  recognized, 
when  they  were  recognizable,  by  mothers,  and 
wives,  and  children,  who  depended  upon  them 
for  their  scant  food." 

Derrick  argued  his  cause  well  and  with  spirit, 
keeping  a  tight  rein  upon  himself ;  but  when, 
having  exhausted  his  arguments,  he  found  that 
he  had  not  advanced  his  cause,  and  that  it  was 
a  settled  matter  that  he  should  not,  he  took 
fire. 

"  Then,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  "  I  have  but  one 
resource.  I  will  hold  no  human  life  lightly  in  my 


282      THAT  LASS  O'   LOWRIE'S 

hands.  I  have  the  honor  to  tender  you  my  resig 
nation." 

There  was  a  dead  silence  for  a  moment  or  so. 
They  had  certainly  not  expected  such  a  result  as 
this.  A  well-disposed  young  man,  who  sat  near 
to  Derrick,  spoke  to  him  in  a  rapid  undertone. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  he  said,  "  it  will  be  the  ruin 
of  you.  For  my  part,  I  admire  your  enthusiasm, 
but  do  not  be  rash." 

"  A  man  with  a  will  and  a  pair  of  clean  hands 
is  not  easily  ruined,"  returned  Derrick  a  trifle 
hotly.  "  As  to  being  rash  or  enthusiastic,  I  am 
neither  the  one  nor  the  other.  It  is  not  enthusi 
asm  which  moves  me,  it  is  a  familiarity  with  stern 
realities." 

When  he  left  the  room  his  fate  had  been  de 
cided.  At  the  end  of  the  week  he  would  have  no 
further  occupation  in  Riggan.  He  had  only  two 
more  days'  work  before  him  and  he  had  gained 
the  unenviable  reputation  of  being  a  fire-and-tow 
young  fellow,  who  was  flighty  enough  to  make  a 
martyr  of  himself. 

Under  the  first  street-lamp  he  met  Grace,  who 
was  evidently  making  his  way  home. 

"  I  will  go  with  you,"  he  said,  taking  his  arm. 

Once  within  the  walls  of  the  pleasant  little 
room,  he  found  it  easy  to  unbosom  himself.  He 
described  his  interview  with  his  employers,  and 
its  termination. 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S       283 

'•  A  few  months  ago,  I  flattered  myself  that  my 
prospects  were  improving,"  he  said ;  "  but  now  it 
seems  that  I  must  begin  again,  which  is  not  an 
easy  matter,  by  the  way." 

By  the  time  he  ended  he  found  his  temporary 
excitement  abating  somewhat,  but  still  his  mood 
was  by  no  means  undisturbed. 

It  was  after  they  had  finished  tea  and  the  arm 
chairs  had  been  drawn  to  the  fire  that  Grace  him 
self  made  a  revelation. 

"  When  you  met  me  to-night,  I  was  returning 
from  a  visit  I  had  paid  to  Joan  Lowrie." 

"  At  Thwaite's  ?  "  said  Derrick. 

"At  Thwaite's.  She — the  fact  is  I  went  on 
business — she  has  determined  to  change  her  plan 
of  life." 

"  In  what  manner  ?  " 

"  She  is  to  work  no  more  at  the  mines.  I  am 
happy  to  say  that  I  have  been  able  to  find  her 
other  employment." 

There  was  an  interval  of  silence,  at  length 
broken  by  Derrick. 

"  Grace,"  he  said,  "  can  you  tell  me  why  she 
decided  upon  such  a  course?" 

Grace  looked  at  him  with  questioning  sur 
prise. 

"  I  can  tell  you  what  she  said  to  me  on  the  sub 
ject,"  he  replied.  "  She  said  it  was  no  woman's 
work,  and  she  was  tired  of  it." 


284      THAT   LASS  O'   LOWRIE'S 

"  She  is  not  the  woman  to  do  anything  without 
a  motive,"  mused  Derrick. 

"  No,"  returned  the  Curate. 

A  moment  later,  as  if  by  one  impulse,  their  eyes 
met.  Grace  started  as  if  he  had  been  stung. 
Derrick  simply  flushed. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked. 

"I  —  I  do  not  think  I  understand,"  Grace 
faltered.  "  Surely  1  am  blundering." 

"  No,"  said  Derrick,  gloomily.  "  You  cannot 
blunder  since  you  know  the  truth.  You  did  not 
fancy  that  my  feeling  was  so  trivial  that  I  could 
have  conquered  it  so  soon  ?  Joan  Lowrie " 

"  Joan  Lowrie  ! " 

Grace's  voice  had  broken  in  upon  him  with  a 
startled  sound. 

The  two  men  regarded  each  other  in  bewilder 
ment.  Then  again  Derrick  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  Grace,"  he  said,  "  you  have  misunderstood 
me." 

Grace  answered  him  with  a  visible  tremor. 

"  If,"  he  said,  "  it  was  to  your  love  for  Joan 
Lowrie  you  referred  when  you  spoke  to  me  of 
your  trouble  some  months  ago,  I  have  misunder 
stood  you.  If  the  obstacles  you  meant  were  the 
obstacles  you  would  find  in  the  path  of  such  a 
love,  I  have  misunderstood  you.  If  you  did  not 
mean  that  your  heart  had  been  stirred  by  a  feel 
ing  your  generous  friendship  caused  you  to 


THAT  LASS  O'   LOWRIE'S       285 

regard  as  unjust  to  me,  I  have  misunderstood 
you  miserably." 

"  My  dear  fellow ! "  Derrick  exclaimed,  with 
some  emotion.  "  My  dear  fellow,  do  you  mean 
to  tell  me  that  you  imagined  I  referred  to  Miss 
Barholm?" 

"  I  was  sure  of  it,"  was  Grace's  agitated  reply. 
"  As  I  said  before,  I  have  misunderstood  you  mis 
erably." 

"  And  yet  you  had  no  word  of  blame  for  me  ?  " 

"  I  had  no  right  to  blame  you.  I  had  not  lost 
what  I  believed  you  had  won.  It  had  never 
been  mine.  It  was  a  mistake,"  he  added,  endeav 
oring  to  steady  himself.  "  But  don't  mind  me, 
Derrick.  Let  us  try  to  set  it  right;  only  I  am 
afraid  you  will  have  to  begin  again." 

Derrick  drew  a  heavy  breath.  He  took  up  a 
paper-knife  from  the  table,  and  began  to  bend  it 
in  his  hands. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  we  shall  have  to  begin  again. 
And  it  is  told  in  a  few  words,"  he  said,  with  a  de- 
liberateness  painful  in  its  suggestion  of  an  intense 
effort  at  self-control.  "  Grace,  what  would  you 
think  of  a  man  who  found  himself  setting  reason 
at  defiance,  and  in  spite  of  all  obstacles  confront 
ing  the  possibility  of  loving  and  marrying  —  if 
she  can  be  won — such  a  woman  as  Joan  Lowrie?" 

"  You  are  putting  me  in  a  difficult  position," 
Paul  answered,  "  If  he  would  dare  so  much,  he 


286       THAT  LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

would  be  the  man  to  dare  to  decide  for  him 
self." 

Derrick  tossed  the  paper-knife  aside. 

"  And  you  know  that  I  am  the  person  in  ques 
tion.  /  have  so  defied  the  world,  in  spite  of  my 
self  at  first,  I  must  confess.  /  have  confronted 
the  possibility  of  loving  Joan  Lowrie  until  I  do 
love  her.  So  there  the  case  stands." 

Gradually  there  dawned  upon  the  Curate's 
mind  certain  remembrances  connected  with  Joan. 
Now  and  then  she  had  puzzled  and  startled  him, 
but  here,  possibly,  might  be  a  solution  of  the 
mystery. 

"  And  Joan  Lowrie  herself  ?  "  he  asked,  ques- 
tioningly. 

"  Joan  Lowrie  herself,"  said  Derrick,  "  is  no 
nearer  to  me  to-day  than  she  was  a  year  ago." 

"  Are  you," — hesitatingly, — "  are  you  quite  sure 
of  that?" 

The  words  had  escaped  his  lips  in  spite  of  him 
self. 

Derrick  started  and  turned  toward  him  with  a 
sudden  movement. 

"  Grace !  "  he  said. 

"  I  asked  if  you  were  sure  of  that,"  answered 
Grace,  coloring.  "  I  am  not." 


CHAPTER  XXXV 
In  the  Pit 

THE  next  morning  Derrick  went  down  to  the 
mine  as  usual.  There  were  several  things  he 
wished  to  do  in  these  last  two  days.  He  had 
heard  that  the  managers  had  entered  into  negoti 
ations  with  a  new  engineer,  and  he  wished  the 
man  to  find  no  half-done  work.  The  day  was 
bright  and  frosty,  and  the  sharp,  bracing  air 
seemed  to  clear  his  brain.  He  felt  more  hopeful, 
and  less  inclined  to  view  matters  darkly. 

He  remembered  afterward  that,  as  he  stepped 
into  the  cage,  he  turned  to  look  at  the  unpictu- 
resque  little  town,  brightened  by  the  winter's 
sun ;  and  that,  as  he  went  down,  he  glanced  up 
at  the  sky  and  marked  how  intense  appeared  the 
bit  of  blue,  which  was  framed  in  by  the  mouth  of 
the  shaft. 

Even  in  the  few  hours  that  had  elapsed  since 
the  meeting  the  rumor  of  what  he  had  said  and 
done  had  been  bruited  about.  Some  collier  had 
heard  it  and  had  told  it  to  his  comrades,  and  so 
it  had  gone  from  one  to  the  other.  It  had  been 
talked  over  at  the  evening  and  morning  meal  in 


288       THAT  LASS  O'   LO\\RIE'S 

divers  cottages,  and  many  an  anxious  woman  had 
warmed  into  praise  of  the  man  who  had  "  had  a 
thowt  for  th'  men." 

In  the  first  gallery  he  entered  he  found  a  depu 
tation  of  men  awaiting  him, — a  group  of  burly 
miners  with  picks  and  shovels  over  their  shoul 
ders, — and  the  head  of  this  deputation,  a  spokes 
man  burlier  and  generally  gruffer  than  the  rest, 
stopped  him. 

"  Mester,"  he  said,  "  we  chaps  'ud  loike  to  ha'  a 
word  wi'  yo'." 

"  All  right,"  was  Derrick's  reply,  "  I  am  ready 
to  listen." 

The  rest  crowded  nearer  as  if  anxious  to  par 
ticipate  as  much  as  possible,  and  give  their 
spokesman  the  support  of  their  presence. 

"  It  is  na  mich  as  we  ha'  getten  to  say,"  said  the 
man,  "  but  we're  fain  to  say  it.  Are  na  we, 
mates  ?  " 

"  Ay,  we  are,  lad,"  in  chorus. 

"  It's  about  summat  as  we'n  heerd.  Theer  wur 
a  chap  as  towd  some  on  us  last  neet,  as  yo'd  get- 
ten  th'  sack  fro'  th'  managers — or  leastways  as 
yo'd  turned  th'  tables  on  'em  an'  gi'en  them  th' 
sack  yo'rsen.  An'  we'n  heerd  as  it  begun  wi' 
yo're  standin'  up  fur  us  chaps — axin  fur  things  as 
wur  wanted  i'  th'  pit  to  save  us  fro'  runnin'  more 
risk  than  we  need.  An'  we  heerd  as  yo'  spoke  up 
bold,  an'  argied  fur  us  an'  stood  to  what  yo' 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S       289 

thowt  war  th'  reet  thing,  an*  we  set  our  moinds 
on  tellin'  yo'  as  we'd  heerd  it  an'  talked  it  over,  an' 
we'd  loike  to  say  a  word  o'  thanks  i'  common  fur 
th'  pluck  yo'  showed.  Is  na  that  it,  mates  ?  " 

"  Ay,  that  it  is,  lad  !  "  responded  the  chorus. 

Suddenly  one  of  the  group  stepped  out  and 
threw  down  his  pick. 

"  An'  I'm  dom'd,  mates,"  he  said,  "  if  here  is  na 
a  chap  as  'ud  loike  to  shake  hands  wi'  him." 

It  was  the  signal  for  the  rest  to  follow  his  ex 
ample.  They  crowded  about  their  champion, 
thrusting  grimy  paws  into  his  hand,  grasping  it 
almost  enthusiastically. 

"  Good  luck  to  yo',  lad !  "  said  one.  "  We'n 
noan  smooth  soart  o'  chaps,  but  we'n  stand  by 
what's  fair  an'  plucky.  We  shall  ha'  a  good  word 
fur  thee  when  tha  hast  made  thy  flittin'." 

"I'm  glad  of  that  lads,"  responded  Derrick, 
heartily,  by  no  means  unmoved  by  the  rough-and- 
ready  spirit  of  the  scene.  "  I  only  wish  I  had 
had  better  luck,  that's  all." 

A  few  hours  later  the  whole  of  the  little  town 
was  shaken  to  its  very  foundations,  by  something 
like  an  earthquake,  accompanied  by  an  ominous, 
booming  sound  which  brought  people  flocking 
out  of  their  houses,  with  white  faces.  Some  of 
them  had  heard  it  before  —  all  knew  what  it 
meant.  From  the  coiners"  cottages  poured  forth 
19 


290       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

women,  shrieking  and  wailing,  —  women  who 
bore  children  in  their  arms  and  had  older  ones 
dragging  at  their  skirts,  and  who  made  their  des 
perate  way  to  the  pit  with  one  accord.  From 
houses  and  workshops  there  rushed  men,  who, 
coming  out  in  twos  and  threes  joined  each  other, 
and,  forming  a  breathless  crowd,  ran  through 
the  streets  scarcely  daring  to  speak  a  word — and 
all  ran  toward  the  pit. 

There  were  scores  at  its  mouth  in  five  minutes ; 
in  ten  minutes  there  were  hundreds,  and  above 
all  the  clamor  rose  the  cry  of  women: 

"  My  Hester's  down !  " 

"An'  mine!" 

"  An'  mine ! " 

"  Four  lads  o'  mine  is  down ! " 

"  Three  o'  mine  !  " 

"  My  little  un's  theer — th'  youngest — nobbut 
ten  year  owd — nobbut  ten  year  owd,  poor  little 
chap  !  an'  on'y  been  at  work  a  week ! " 

"  Ay,  wenches,  God  ha'  mercy  on  us  aw' — God 
ha'  mercy ! "  And  then  more  shrieks  and  wails 
in  which  the  terror-stricken  children  joined. 

It  was  a  fearful  sight.  How  many  lay  dead 
and  dying  in  the  noisome  darkness  below,  God 
only  knew  !  How  many  lay  mangled  and  crushed, 
waiting  for  their  death,  Heaven  only  could  tell ! 

In  five  minutes  after  the  explosion  occurred,  a 
slight  figure  in  clerical  garb  made  its  way 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S       291 

through  the  crowd  with  an  air  of  excited  de 
termination. 

"The  Parson's  feart,"  was  the  general  com 
ment. 

"  My  men,"  he  said,  raising  his  voice  so  that  all 
could  hear,  "  can  any  of  you  tell  me  who  last 
saw  Fergus  Derrick?" 

There  was  a  brief  pause,  and  then  came  a  reply 
from  a  collier  who  stood  near. 

"  I  coom  up  out  o'  th'  pit  an  hour  ago,"  he  said, 
"  I  wur  th'  last  as  coom  up,  an'  it  wur  on'y  chance 
as  browt  me.  Derrick  wur  wi'  his  men  i'  th'  new 
part  o'  th'  mine.  I  seed  him  as  I  passed  through." 

Grace's  face  became  a  shade  or  so  paler,  but  he 
made  no  more  inquiries. 

His  friend  either  lay  dead  below,  or  was  wait 
ing  for  his  doom  at  that  very  moment.  He 
stepped  a  little  farther  forward. 

"  Unfortunately  for  myself,  at  present,"  he  said, 
"  I  have  no  practical  knowledge  of  the  nature  of 
these  accidents.  Will  some  of  you  tell  me  how 
long  it  will  be  before  we  can  make  our  first  effort 
to  rescue  the  men  who  are  below  ?  " 

Did  he  mean  to  volunteer — this  young  whipper- 
snapper  of  a  parson  ?  And  if  he  did,  could  he 
know  what  he  was  doing  ?  " 

"  I  ask  you,"  he  said,  "  because  I  wish  to  offer 
myself  as  a  volunteer  at  once ;  I  think  I  am 
stronger  than  you  imagine  and  at  least  my  heart 


292       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

will  be  in  the  work.  I  have  a  friend  below, — my. 
self,"  his  voice  altering  its  tone  and  losing  its 
firmness, — "  a  friend  who  is  worthy  the  sacrifice 
of  ten  such  lives  as  mine  if  such  a  sacrifice  could 
save  him." 

One  or  two  of  the  older  and  more  experienced 
spoke  up.  Under  an  hour  it  would  be  impossible 
to  make  the  attempt — it  might  even  be  a  longer 
time,  but  in  an  hour  they  might,  at  least,  make 
their  first  effort. 

If  such  was  the  case,  the  Parson  said,  the  inter 
vening  period  must  be  turned  to  the  best  account. 
In  that  time  much  could  be  thought  of  and  done 
which  would  assist  themselves  and  benefit  the 
sufferers.  He  called  upon  the  strongest  and  most 
experienced,  and  almost  without  their  recogniz 
ing  the  prominence  of  his  position,  led  them  on 
in  the  work.  He  even  rallied  the  weeping  women 
and  gave  them  something  to  do.  One  was  sent 
for  this  necessary  article  and  another  for  that.  A 
couple  of  boys  were  despatched  to  the  next  village 
for  extra  medical  assistance,  so  that  there  need  be 
no  lack  of  attention  when  it  was  required.  He 
took  off  his  broadcloth  and  worked  with  the  rest 
of  them  until  all  the  necessary  preparations  were 
made  and  it  was  considered  possible  to  descend 
into  the  mine. 

When  all  was  ready,  he  went  to  the  mouth  of 
the  shaft  and  took  his  place  quietly. 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S       293 

It  was  a  hazardous  task  they  had  before  them. 
Death  would  stare  them  in  the  face  all  through 
its  performance.  There  was  choking  after-damp 
below,  noxious  vapors,  to  breathe  which  was  to 
die ;  there  was  the  chance  of  crushing  masses  fall 
ing  from  the  shaken  galleries — and  yet  these  men 
left  their  companions  one  by  one  and  ranged 
themselves,  without  saying  a  word,  at  the  Curate's 
side. 

"  My  friends,"  said  Grace,  baring  his  head,  and 
raising  a  feminine  hand.  "  My  friends,  we  will 
say  a  short  prayer." 

It  was  only  a  few  words.  Then  the  Curate 
spoke  again. 

"  Ready  ! "  he  said. 

But  just  at  that  moment  there  stepped  out  from 
the  anguished  crowd  a  girl,  whose  face  was  set 
and  deathly,  though  there  was  no  touch  of  fear 
upon  it. 

"  I  ax  yo',"  she  said,  "  to  let  me  go  wi'  yo'  and 
do  what  I  con.  Lasses,  some  on  yo'  speak  a  word 
fur  Joan  Lowrie ! " 

There  was  a  breathless  start.  The  women  even 
stopped  their  outcry  to  look  at  her  as  she  stood 
apart  from  them, — a  desperate  appeal  in  the  very 
quiet  of  her  gesture  as  she  turned  to  look  about 
her  for  some  one  to  speak. 

"  Lasses,"  she  said  again.  "  Some  on  yo'  speak 
a  word  fur  Joan  Lowrie  !  " 


294       THAT   LASS  O'   LOWRIE'S 

There  rose  a  murmur  among  them  then,  and 
the  next  instant  this  murmur  was  a  cry. 

"  Ay,"  they  answered,  "  we  con  aw  speak  fur 
yo'.  Let  her  go,  lads !  She's  worth  two  o'  th' 
best  on  yo'.  Nowt  fears  her.  Ay,  she  mun  go, 
if  she  will,  mun  Joan  Lowrie !  Go,  Joan,  lass, 
and  we'n  not  forget  thee ! " 

But  the  men  demurred.  The  finer  instinct  of 
some  of  them  shrank  from  giving  a  woman  a 
place  in  such  a  perilous  undertaking — the  coarser 
element  in  others  rebelled  against  it. 

"  We'n  ha'  no  wenches,"  these  said,  surlily. 

Grace  stepped  forward.  He  went  to  Joan 
Lowrie  and  touched  her  gently  on  the  shoulder. 

"  We  cannot  think  of  it,"  he  said.  "  It  is  very 
brave  and  generous,  and — God  bless  you  ! — but  it 
cannot  be.  I  could  not  think  of  allowing  it  my- 
self,  if  the  rest  would." 

"  Parson,"  said  Joan  coolly,  but  not  roughly, 
"  tha'd  ha'  hard  work  to  help  thysen,  if  so  be  as 
th'  lads  wur  willin'." 

"  But,"  he  protested,  "  it  may  be  death.  I  could 
not  bear  the  thought  of  it.  You  are  a  woman. 
We  cannot  let  you  risk  your  life." 

She  turned  to  the  volunteers. 

"Lads,"  she  cried,  passionately,  "yo*  munnot 

turn  me  back.  I — sin  I  mun  tell  yo' "  and  she 

faced  them  like  a  queen, — "  theer's  a  mon  down 
theer  as  I'd  gi'  my  heart's  blood  to  save." 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S       295 

They  did  not  know  whom  she  meant,  but  they 
demurred  no  longer. 

"  Tak'  thy  place,  wench,"  said  the  oldest  of 
them.  "  If  tha  mun,  tha  mun." 

She  took  her  seat  in  the  cage  by  Grace,  and 
when  she  took  it  she  half  turned  her  face  away. 
But  when  those  above  began  to  lower  them,  and 
they  found  themselves  swinging  downward  into 
what  might  be  to  them  a  pit  of  death,  she  spoke 
to  him. 

"  Theer's  a  prayer  I'd  loike  yo*  to  pray,"  she 
said.  "  Pray  that  if  we  mun  dee,  we  may  na  dee 
until  we  ha'  done  our  work." 

It  was  a  dreadful  work  indeed  that  the  rescuers 
had  to  do  in  those  black  galleries.  And  Joan  was 
the  bravest,  quickest,  most  persistent  of  all.  Paul 
Grace,  following  in  her  wake,  found  himself  obey 
ing  her  slightest  word  or  gesture.  He  worked 
constantly  at  her  side,  for  he,  at  least,  had  guessed 
the  truth.  He  knew  that  they  were  both  en 
gaged  in  the  same  quest.  When  at  last  they 
had  worked  their  way — lifting,  helping,  comfort 
ing — to  the  end  of  the  passage  where  the  collier 
had  said  he  last  saw  the  master  then,  for  one  mo 
ment,  she  paused,  and  her  companion,  with  a 
thrill  of  pity,  touched  her  to  attract  her  attention. 

"  Let  me  go  first,"  he  said. 

"  Nay,"  she  answered,  "  we'n  go  together.'* 

The  gallery  was  a  long  and  low  one,  and  had 


296       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

been  terribly  shaken.  In  some  places  the  props 
had  been  torn  away,  in  others  they  were  borne 
down  by  the  loosened  blocks  of  coal.  The  dim 
light  of  the  "  Davy  "  Joan  held  up  showed  such  a 
wreck  that  Grace  spoke  to  her  again. 

"  You  must  let  me  go  first,"  he  said,  with 
gentle  firmness.  "  If  one  of  these  blocks  should 
fall " 

Joan  interrupted  him, — 

"  If  one  on  'em  should  fall  I'm  th'  one  as  it  had 
better  fall  on.  There  is  na  mony  foak  as  ud  miss 
Joan  Lowrie.  Yo'  ha'  work  o'  yo're  own  to  do." 

She  stepped  into  the  gallery  before  he  could 
protest,  and  he  could  only  follow  her.  She  went 
before,  holding  the  Davy  high,  so  that  its  light 
might  be  thrown  as  far  forward  as  possible.  Now 
and  then  she  was  forced  to  stoop  to  make  her  way 
around  a  bending  prop ;  sometimes  there  was  a 
fallen  mass  to  be  surmounted,  but  she  was  at  the 
front  still  when  they  reached  the  other  end  with 
out  finding  the  object  of  their  search. 

"  It — he  is  na  there,"  she  said.  "  Let  us  try  th' 
next  passage,"  and  she  turned  into  it. 

It  was  she  who  first  came  upon  what  they  were 
looking  for;  but  they  did  not  find  it  in  the  next 
passage,  or  the  next,  or  even  the  next.  It  was 
farther  away  Irom  the  scene  of  the  explosion  than 
they  had  dared  to  hope.  As  they  entered  a  nar 
row  side  gallery,  Grace  heard  her  utter  a  low 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S      297 

sound,  and  the  next  minute  she  was  down  upon 
her  knees. 

"  Theer's  a  mon  here,"  she  said.  "  It's  him  as 
we're  lookin'  fur." 

She  held  the  dim  little  lantern  close  to  the  face, 
— a  still  face  with  closed  eyes,  and  blood  upon  it. 
Grace  knelt  down  too,  his  heart  aching  with 
dread. 

"  Is  he "  he  began,  but  could  not  finish. 

Joan  Lowrie  laid  her  hand  upon  the  apparently 
motionless  breast  and  waited  almost  a  minute, 
and  then  she  lifted  her  own  face,  white  as  the 
wounded  man's — white  and  solemn,  and  wet  with 
a  sudden  rain  of  tears. 

"He  is  na  dead,"  she  said.  "We  ha'  saved 
him." 

She  sat  down  upon  the  floor  of  the  gallery  and 
lifting  his  head  laid  it  upon  her  bosom,  holding  it 
close  as  a  mother  might  hold  the  head  of  her 
child. 

"  Mester,"  she  said,  "  gi'  me  th'  brandy  flask, 
and  tak'  thou  thy  Davy  an'  go  fur  some  o'  th' 
men  to  help  us  get  him  to  th'  leet  o'  day.  I'm 
gone  weak  at  last.  I  conna  do  no  more.  I'll  go 
wi'  him  to  th'  top." 

When  the  cage  ascended  to  the  mouth  again 
with  its  last  load  of  sufferers,  Joan  Lowrie  came 
with  it,  blinded  and  dazzled  by  the  golden  win- 
ter's  sunlight  as  it  fell  upon  her  haggard  face. 


298       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

She  was  holding  the  head  of  what  seemed  to  be 
a  dead  man  upon  her  knee.  A  great  shout  of 
welcome  rose  up  from  the  bystanders. 

She  helped  them  to  lay  her  charge  upon  a  pile 
of  coats  and  blankets  prepared  for  him,  and  then 
she  turned  to  the  doctor  who  had  hurried  to  the 
spot  to  see  what  could  be  done. 

"  He  is  na  dead ,"  she  said.  "  Lay  yo're  hond  on 
his  heart.  It  beats  yet,  Mester, — on'y  a  little,  but 
it  beats." 

"  No,"  said  the  doctor,  "  he  is  not  dead — yet," 
with  a  breath's  pause  between  the  two  last  words. 
"  If  some  of  you  will  help  me  to  put  him  on  a 
stretcher,  he  may  be  carried  home,  and  I  will  go 
with  him.  There  is  just  a  chance  for  him,  poor 
fellow,  and  he  must  have  immediate  attention. 
Where  does  he  live?" 

"  He  must  go  with  me,"  said  Grace.  "  He  is 
my  friend." 

So  they  took  him  up,  and  Joan  stood  a  little 
apart  and  watched  them  carry  him  away, — 
watched  the  bearers  until  they  were  out  oi  sight, 
and  then  turned  again  and  joined  the  women  in 
their  work  among  the  sufferers. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 
Alive  Yet 

IN  the  bedroom  above  the  small  parlor  a  fire 
was  burning  at  midnight,  and  by  this  fire  Grace 
was  watching.  The  lamp  was  turned  low  and  the 
room  was  very  quiet;  a  dropping  cinder  made 
quite  a  startling  sound.  When  a  moan  or  a  move 
ment  of  the  patient  broke  the  stillness — which 
was  only  at  rare  intervals — the  Curate  rose  and 
went  to  the  bedside.  But  it  was  only  to  look  at 
the  sufferer  lying  upon  it,  bandaged  and  uncon 
scious.  There  was  very  little  he  could  do.  He 
could  follow  the  instructions  given  by  the  medi 
cal  man  before  he  went  away,  but  these  had  been 
few  and  hurried,  and  he  could  only  watch  with 
grief  in  his  heart.  There  was  but  a  chance  that 
his  friend's  life  might  be  saved.  Close  attention 
and  unremitting  care  might  rescue  him,  and  to 
the  best  of  his  ability  the  Curate  meant  to  give 
him  both.  But  he  could  not  help  feeling  a  deep 
anxiety.  His  faith  in  his  own  skill  was  not  very 
great,  and  there  were  no  professional  nurses  in 
Riggan. 

"  It  is  the  care  women  give  that  he  needs,"  he 


300        THAT   LASS  O'   LOWRIE'S 

said  once,  standing  near  the  pillow  and  speaking 
to  himself.  "  Men  cannot  do  these  things  well. 
A  mother  or  sister  might  save  him." 

He  went  to  the  window  and  drew  back  the 
curtain  to  look  out  upon  the  night.  As  he  did 
so,  he  saw  the  figure  of  a  woman  nearing  the 
house.  As  she  approached,  she  began  to  walk 
more  slowly,  and  when  she  reached  the  gates  she 
hesitated,  stopped  and  looked  up.  In  a  moment 
it  became  evident  that  she  saw  him,  and  was  con 
scious  that  he  saw  her.  The  dim  light  in  the 
chamber  threw  his  form  into  strong  relief.  She 
raised  her  hand  and  made  a  gesture.  He  turned 
away  from  the  window,  left  the  room  quietly,  and 
went  down-stairs.  She  had  not  moved,  but  stood 
at  the  gate  awaiting  him.  She  spoke  to  him  in  a 
low  tone,  and  he  distinguished  in  its  sound  a  de 
gree  of  physical  exhaustion. 

"  Yo'  saw  me,"  she  said.  "  I  thowt  yo'  did 
though  I  did  na  think  o'  yo'  bein'  at  th'  winder 
when  I  stopped — to — to  see  th'  leet." 

"  I  am  glad  I  saw  you,"  said  Grace.  "  You  have 
been  at  work  among  the  men  who  were  hurt?" 

"  Ay,"  pulling  at  a  bush  of  evergreen  nervously, 
and  scattering  the  leaves  as  she  spoke.  "  Theer's 
scarce  a  house  o'  th'  common  soart  i'  Riggan  as 
has  na  trouble  in  it." 

"God  help  them  all!"  exclaimed  Grace,  fer 
vently. 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S       301 

"  Have  you  seen  Miss  Barholm  ?  "  he  asked 
next. 

"  She  wur  on  th'  ground  i'  ten  minnits  after  th' 
explosion.  She  wur  in  th'  village  when  it  happent, 
an'  she  drove  to  th'  pit.  She's  been  workin'  as 
hard  as  ony  woman  i'  Riggan.  She  saw  us  go 
down  th'  mine,  but  she  did  not  see  us  come  up. 
She  wur  away  then  wi*  a  woman  as  had  a  lad  to 
be  carried  home  dead.  She  would  ha'  come  to 
kirn,  but  she  knowed  yo'  were  wi'  him,  an'  theer 
wur  them  as  needed  her.  When  th'  cages  coom 
up  theer  wur  women  as  screamed  an'  held  to  her, 
an'  throwed  theirsens  on  their  knees  an'  hid  their 
faces  i'  her  dress,  an'  i'  her  honds,  as  if  they  thowt 
she  could  keep  th'  truth  fro'  'em." 

Grace  trembled  in  his  excitement. 

"  God  bless  her !  God  bless  her ! "  he  said, 
again  and  again. 

"  Where  is  she  now  ?  "  he  asked  at  length. 

"  Theer  wur  a  little  chap  as  come  up  i'  the  last 
cageful — he  wur  hurt  bad,  an'  he  wur  sich  a  little 
chap  as  it  went  hard  wi'  him.  When  th'  doctor 
touched  him  he  screamed  an'  begged  to  be  let 
alone,  an'  she  heerd  an'  went  to  him,  an'  knelt 
down  an'  quieted  him  a  bit.  Th'  poor  little  lad 
would  na  let  go  o'  her  dress ;  he  held  to  it  fur 
dear  life,  an'  sobbed  an'  shivered  and  begged  her 
to  go  wi'  him  an'  howd  his  head  on  her  lap  while 
th'  doctor  did  what  mun  be  done.  An'  so  she 


302       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

went,  an'  she's  wi'  him  now.  He  will  na  live  till 
day-leet,  an*  he  keeps  crying  out  for  th'  lady  to 
stay  wi'  him." 

There  was  another  silence,  and  then  Joan 
spoke : 

"Canna  yo'  guess  what  I  coom  to  say?" 

He  thought  he  could,  and  perhaps  his  glance 
told  her  so. 

"  If  I  wtir  a  lady,"  she  said,  her  lips,  her  hands 
trembling,  "  I  could  na  ax  yo'  what  I've  made  up 
my  moind  to ;  but  I'm  noan  a  lady,  an'  it  does  na 
matter.  If  yo'  need  some  one  to  help  yo'  wi' 
him,  will  yo'  let  me  ha'  th'  place  ?  I  dunnot  ax 
nowt  else  but — but  to  be  let  do  th'  hard  work." 

She  ended  with  a  sob.  Suddenly  she  covered 
her  face  with  her  hands,  weeping  wildly. 

"  Don't  do  that,"  he  said,  gently.  "  Come  with 
me.  It  is  you  he  needs." 

He  led  the  way  into  the  house  and  up  the 
stairs,  Joan  following  him.  When  they  entered 
the  room  they  went  to  the  bedside. 

The  injured  man  lay  motionless. 

"  Is  theer  loife  i'  him  yet  ?  "  asked  Joan.  "  He 
looks  as  if  theer  might  na  be." 

"  There  is  life  in  him,"  Grace  answered  ;  "  and 
he  has  been  a  strong  man,  so  I  think  we  may  feel 
some  hope." 


CHAPTER  XXXW1 

Watching  and  Waiting 

THE  next  morning  the  pony-carriage  stopped 
before  the  door  of  the  Curate's  lodgings.  When 
Grace  went  downstairs  to  the  parlor,  Anice  Bar- 
holm  turned  from  the  window  to  greet  him. 
The  appearance  of  physical  exhaustion  he  had 
observed  the  night  before  in  Joan  Lowrie,  he  saw 
again  in  her,  but  he  had  never  before  seen  the 
face  which  Anice  turned  toward  him. 

"  I  was  on  the  ground  yesterday,  and  saw  you 
go  down  into  the  mine,"  she  said.  "  I  had  never 
thought  of  such  courage  before." 

That  was  all,  but  in  a  second  he  comprehended 
that  this  morning  they  stood  nearer  together 
than  they  had  ever  stood  before. 

"  How  is  the  child  you  were  with  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  He  died  an  hour  ago." 

When  they  went  upstairs,  Joan  was  standing 
by  the  sick  man. 

"  He's  worse  than  he  wur  last  neet,"  she  said. 
"  An'  he'll  be  worse  still.  I  ha'  nursed  hurts  like 
these  afore.  It'll  be  mony  a  day  afore  he'll  be 
better — if  th'  toime  ivver  comes." 


304       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

The  Rector  and  Mrs.  Barholm,  hearing  of  the 
accident,  and  leaving  Browton  hurriedly  to  re 
turn  home,  were  met  by  half  a  dozen  different 
versions  on  their  way  to  Riggan,  and  each  one 
was  so  enthusiastically  related  that  Mr.  Bar- 
holm's  rather  dampened  interest  in  his  daughter's 
protege  was  fanned  again  into  a  brisk  flame. 

"  There  must  be  something  in  the  girl,  after  all," 
he  said,  "  if  one  could  only  get  at  it.  Something 
ought  to  be  done  for  her,  really." 

Hearing  of  Grace's  share  in  the  transaction,  he 
was  simply  amazed. 

"  I  think  there  must  be  some  mistake,"  he  said 
to  his  wife.  "  Grace  is  not  the  man — not  the  man 
physically"  straightening  his  broad  shoulders,  "  to 
be  equal  to  such  a  thing." 

But  the  truth  of  the  report  forced  itself  upon 
him  after  hearing  the  story  repeated  several 
times  before  they  reached  Riggan,  and  arriv 
ing  at  home  they  heard  the  whole  story  from 
Anice. 

While  Anice  was  talking,  Mr.  Barholm  began 
to  pace  the  floor  of  the  room  restlessly. 

"  I  wish  I  had  been  there,"  he  said.  "  I  would 
have  gone  down  myself." 

(It  is  true :  he  would  have  done  so.) 

"  You  are  a  braver  man  than  I  took  you  for," 
he  said  to  his  Curate,  when  he  saw  him, — and  he 
felt  sure  that  he  was  saying  exactly  the  right 


THAT  LASS  O'   LOWRIE'S       305 

thing.  "  I  should  scarcely  have  expected  such 
dashing  heroism  from  you,  Grace." 

"  I  hardly  regarded  it  in  that  light,"  said  the 
little  gentleman,  coloring  sensitively.  "  If  I  had, 
I  should  scarcely  have  expected  it  of  myself." 

The  fact  that  Joan  Lowrie  had  engaged  herself 
as  nurse  to  the  injured  engineer  made  some 
gossip  among  her  acquaintances  at  first,  but  this 
soon  died  out.  Thwaite's  wife  had  a  practical 
enough  explanation  of  the  case. 

"  Th'  lass  wur  tired  o'  pit-work  ;  an'  no  wonder. 
She's  made  up  her  moind  to  ha'  done  wi*  it ;  an' 
she's  a  first-rate  one  to  nurse, — strong  i'  the  arms, 
an'  noan  sleepy-headed.  Happen  she'll  tak'  up 
wi'  it  fur  a  trade.  As  to  it  bein'  him  as  she  meant 
when  she  said  theer  wur  a  mon  as  she  meant  to 
save,  it  wur  no  such  thing.  Joan  Lowrie's  noan 
th'  kind  o'  wench  to  be  runnin'  after  gentlefolk, — 
yo'  know  that  yoresens.  It's  noan  o'  our  busi 
ness  who  the  mon  wur.  Happen  he's  dead ;  an' 
whether  he's  dead  or  alive,  you'd  better  leave  him 
a-be,  an'  her  too." 

In  the  sick  man's  room  the  time  passed  monoto 
nously.  There  were  days  and  nights  of  heavy 
slumber  or  unconsciousness, — restless  mutterings 
and  weary  tossings  to  and  fro.  The  face  upon 
the  pillow  was  sometimes  white,  sometimes 
flushed  with  fever ;  but  whatever  change  came  to 
pass,  Death  never  seemed  far  away. 

20 


306       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

Grace  lost  appetite,  and  grew  thin  with  pro 
tracted  anxiety  and  watching.  He  would  not 
give  up  his  place  even  to  Anice  or  Mrs.  Barholm, 
who  spent  much  of  their  time  in  the  house.  He 
would  barely  consent  to  snatch  a  few  minutes' 
rest  in  the  day-time ;  in  truth,  he  could  not  have 
slept  if  he  would.  Joan  held  to  her  post  unflinch 
ingly.  She  took  even  less  respite  than  Grace. 
Having  almost  forced  her  to  leave  the  room  one 
morning,  Anice  went  downstairs  to  find  her  lying 
upon  the  sofa, — her  hands  clasped  under  her  head, 
her  eyes  wide  open. 

"  I  conna  sleep  yet  a  while,"  she  said.  "  Dunnot 
let  it  trouble  yo'.  I'm  used  to  it." 

Sometimes  during  the  long  night  Joan  felt  his 
hollow  eyes  following  her  as  she  moved  about  the 
room,  and  fixed  hungrily  upon  her  when  she  stood 
near  him. 

"Who  are  you?"  he  would  say.  "I  have  seen 
you  before,  and  I  know  your  face ;  but — but  I  have 
lost  your  name.  Who  are  you  ?" 

One  night,  as  she  stood  upon  the  hearth,  alone 
in  the  room, — Grace  having  gone  downstairs  for 
something, — she  was  startled  by  the  sound  of 
Derrick's  voice  falling  with  a  singular  distinctness 
upon  the  silence. 

"  Who  is  it  that  is  standing  there  ? "  he  said. 

"  Do  I  know  you?  Yes — it  is "  but  before  he 

could  finish,  the  momentary  gleam  of  recognition 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S       307 

had  passed  away,  and  he  had  wandered  off  again 
into  low,  disjointed  murmurings. 

It  was  always  of  the  mine,  or  one  other  anxiety, 
that  he  spoke.  There  was  something  he  must 
do  or  say, — some  decision  he  must  reach.  Must 
he  give  up?  Could  he  give  up?  Perhaps  he 
had  better  go  away,  —  far  away.  Yes ;  he  had 
better  go.  No, — he  could  not,— he  must  wait  and 
think  again.  He  was  tired  of  thinking, — tired  of 
reasoning  and  arguing  with  himself.  Let  it  go 
for  a  few  minutes.  Give  him  just  an  hour  of 
rest.  He  was  full  of  pain  ;  he  was  losing  himself, 
somehow.  And  then,  after  a  brief  silence,  he 
would  begin  again  and  go  the  weary  round  once 
more. 

"  He  has  had  a  great  deal  of  mental  anxiety  of 
late, — too  much  responsibility,"  said  the  medical 
man  ;  "  and  it  is  going  rather  against  him." 


CHAPTER   XXXWII 

Recognition 

THE  turning-point  was  reached  at  last  One 
evening,  at  the  close  of  his  usual  visit,  the  doctor 
said  to  Grace : 

"  To-morrow,  I  think,  you  will  see  a  marked 
alteration.  I  should  not  be  surprised  to  find  on 
my  next  visit  that  his  mind  had  become  perma 
nently  cleared.  The  intervals  of  half  conscious 
ness  have  become  lengthened.  Unless  some 
entirely  unlooked-for  change  occurs,  I  feel  sure 
that  the  worst  is  over.  Give  him  close  attention 
to-night.  Don't  let  the  young  woman  leave  the 
room." 

That  night  Anice  watched  with  Joan.  It  was 
a  strange  experience  through  which  these  two 
passed  together.  If  Anice  had  not  known  the 
truth  before,  she  would  have  learned  it  then. 
Again  and  again  Derrick  went  the  endless  round 
of  his  miseries.  How  must  it  end  ?  How  could 
it  end?  What  must  he  do?  How  black  and 
narrow  the  passages  were !  There  she  was, 
coming  toward  him  from  the  other  end, — and  if 
the  props  gave  way !  They  were  giving  way ! 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S       309 

— Good  God  !  the  light  was  out,  and  he  was  held 
fast  by  the  mass  which  had  fallen  upon  him. 
What  must  he  do  about  her  whom  he  loved,  and 
who  was  separated  from  him  by  this  horrible 
wall  ?  He  was  dying,  and  she  would  never  know 
what  he  wanted  to  tell  her.  What  was  it  that  he 
wanted  to  say, — That  he  loved  her, — loved  her, 
— loved  her !  Could  she  hear  him  ?  He  must 
make  her  hear  him  before  he  died,  —  "  Joan ! 
Joan ! " 

Thus  he  raved  hour  after  hour ;  and  the  two 
sat  and  listened,  often  in  dead  silence  ;  but  at  last 
there  rose  in  Joan  Lowrie's  face  a  look  of  such 
intense  and  hopeless  pain,  that  Anice  spoke. 

"  Joan !  my  poor  Joan  !  "  she  said. 

Joan's  head  sank  down  upon  her  hands. 

"  I  mun  go  away  fro'  Riggan,"  she  whispered. 
"  I  mun  go  away  afore  he  knows.  Theer's  no  help 
fur  me." 

"  No  help  ?  "  repeated  Anice  after  her. 

She  did  not  understand. 

"  Theer's  none,"  said  Joan.  "  Dunnot  yo'  see 
as  ony  place  wheer  he  is  con  be  no  place  fur  me? 
I  thowt — I  thowt  the  trouble  wur  aw  on  my  side, 
but  it  is  na.  Do  yo'  think  I'd  stay  an'  let  him  do 
hissen  a  wrong?" 

Anice  wrung  her  hands  together. 

"  A  wrong  ?  "  she  cried.  "  Not  a  wrong,  Joan 
— I  cannot  let  you  call  it  that." 


310       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

"  It  would  na  be  nowt  else.  Am  /  fit  wife  fur  a 
gentlemon  ?  Nay,  my  work's  done  when  the  dan 
ger's  ower.  If  he  wakes  to  know  th'  leet  o'  day 
to-morrow  morning,  it's  done  then." 

"  You  do  not  mean,"  said  Anice,  "  that  you  will 
leave  us?" 

"  I  conna  stay  i'  Riggan  ;  I  mun  go  away." 

Toward  morning  Derrick  became  quieter.  He 
muttered  less  and  less  until  his  voice  died  away 
altogether,  and  he  sank  into  a  profound  slumber. 
Grace,  coming  in  and  finding  him  sleeping,  turned 
to  Joan  with  a  look  of  intense  relief. 

"  The  worst  is  over,"  he  said ;  "  now  we  may 
hope  for  the  best." 

"  Ay,"  Joan  answered,  quietly,  "  th'  worst  is 
ower — fur  him." 

At  last  darkness  gave  way  to  a  faint  gray  light, 
and  then  the  gray  sky  showed  long  slender 
streaks  of  wintry  red,  gradually  widening  and 
deepening  until  all  the  east  seemed  flushed. 

"  It's  mornin',"  said  Joan,  turning  from  the  win 
dow  to  the  bed.  "  I  mun  gi'  him  th'  drops 
again." 

She  was  standing  near  the  pillow  when  the  first 
flood  of  the  sunlight  poured  in  at  the  window. 
At  this  moment  Derrick  awoke  from  his  sleep  to 
a  full  recognition  of  all  around  him.  But  the 
strength  of  his  delirium  had  died  out;  his  pros- 
tration  was  so  utter,  that  for  the  moment  he  had 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S       311 

no  power  to  speak  and  could  only  look  up  at  the 
pale  face  hopelessly.  It  seemed  as  if  the  golden 
glow  of  the  morning  light  transfigured  it. 

"  He's  awake,"  Joan  said,  moving  away  and 
speaking  to  those  on  the  other  side  of  the  room. 
"  Will  one  on  yo'  pour  out  th'  medicine  ?  My 
hand's  noan  steady." 

Grace  went  to  the  bedside  hurriedly. 

"  Derrick,"  he  said,  bending  down,  "  do  you 
know  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  Derrick  answered  in  a  faltering  whisper, 
and  as  he  said  it  the  bedroom  door  closed.  Both 
of  them  heard  it.  A  shadow  fell  upon  the  sick 
man's  face.  His  eyes  met  his  friend's  with  a 
question  in  them,  and  the  next  instant  the  ques 
tion  put  itself  into  words : 

"Who— went  out?" 

Grace  bent  lower. 

"  It  was  Joan  Lowrie." 

He  closed  his  eyes  and  waited  a  little  as  if  to 
gain  fresh  strength.  There  rose  a  faint  flush  upon 
his  hollow  cheeks  and  his  mouth  trembled. 

"  How" — he  said  next — "  how — long?" 

"  You  mean  to  ask  me,"  said  Grace,  "  how  long 
she  has  been  here  ?  " 

A  motion  of  assent. 

"  She  has  been  here  from  the  first." 

He  asked  no  further  questions.  His  eyes  closed 
once  more  and  he  lay  silent. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 
A  Testimonial 

JOAN  went  back  to  her  lodgings  at  the 
Thwaites'  and  left  Mrs.  Barholm  and  Anice  to 
fill  her  place. 

Too  prostrate  to  question  his  nurses,  Derrick 
could  only  lie  with  closed  eyes  helpless  and 
weary.  He  could  not  even  keep  himself  awake 
long  enough  to  work  his  way  to  any  very  clear 
memories  of  what  had  happened.  He  had  so 
many  half  recollections  to  tantalize  him.  He 
could  remember  his  last  definite  sensation, — a  ter 
rible  shock  flinging  him  to  the  ground,  a  second 
of  pain  and  horror,  and  then  utter  oblivion.  Had 
he  awakened  one  night  and  seen  Joan  Lowrie  by 
the  dim  fire-light  and  called  out  to  her,  and  then 
lost  himself?  Had  he  awakened  for  a  second  or 
so  again  and  seen  her  standing  close  to  his  pillow, 
looking  down  at  him  with  in  agony  of  dread  in 
her  face  ? 

In  answer  to  his  question,  Grace  had  told  him 
that  she  had  been  with  him  from  the  first.  How 
had  it  happened  **  This  he  asked  himself  again 
and  again,  until  he  grew  feverish  over  it. 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S       313 

"  Above  all  things,"  he  heard  the  doctor  say, 
"  don't  let  him  talk  and  don't  talk  to  him." 

But  Grace  comprehended  something  of  his 
mental  condition. 

"  I  see  by  your  look  that  you  wish  to  question 
me,"  he  said  to  him.  "  Have  patience  for  a  few 
days  and  then  I  will  answer  every  question  you 
may  ask.  Try  to  rest  upon  that  assurance." 

There  was  one  question,  however,  which  would 
not  wait.  Grace  saw  it  lying  in  the  eager  eyes 
and  answered  it. 

"  Joan  Lowrie,"  he  said,  "  has  gone  home." 

Joan's  welcome  at  the  Thwaites'  house  was 
tumultuous.  The  children  crowded  about  her, 
neighbors  dropped  in,  both  men  and  women  want 
ing  to  have  a  word  with  her.  There  were  few  of 
them  who  had  not  met  with  some  loss  by  the  ex 
plosion,  and  there  were  those  among  them  who 
had  cause  to  remember  the  girl's  daring. 

"  How's  th'  engineer?  "  they  asked.  "  What  do 
th'  doctors  say  o'  him  ?  " 

"  He'll  get  better,"  she  answered.  "  They  say 
as  he's  out  o'  danger." 

"  Wur  na  it  him  as  had  his  head  on  yo're  knee 
when  yo'  come  up  i'  th'  cage  ?  "  asked  one  woman. 

Mrs.  Thwaite  answered  for  her  with  some 
sharpness.  They  should  not  gossip  about  Joan, 
if  she  could  help  it. 

"  I  dunnot  suppose  as  she  knowd  th'  difference 


314       THAT   LASS  O'   LOWRIE'S 

betwixt  one  mon  an'  another,"  she  said.  "  It  wur 
na  loikely  as  she'd  pick  and  choose.  Let  th'  lass 
ha'  a  bit  o'  quoiet,  wenches.  Yo'  moither  her  wi* 
yo're  talk." 

"  It's  an  ill  wind  as  blows  nobody  good,"  said 
Thwaite  himself.  "  Th'  explosion  has  done  one 
thing — it's  made  th'  mesters  change  their  minds. 
They're  i*  th'  humor  to  do  what  th'  engineer  axed 
fur,  now." 

"  Ay,"  said  a  tired-looking  woman,  whose  poor 
attempt  at  mourning  told  its  own  story ;  "  but 
that  wunnot  bring  my  mester  back." 

"  Nay,"  said  another,  "  nor  my  two  lads." 

There  had  been  a  great  deal  of  muttered  dis 
content  among  the  colliers  before  the  accident, 
and  since  its  occurrence  there  had  been  signs  of 
open  rebellion.  Then,  too,  results  had  proved 
that  the  seasonable  adoption  of  Derrick's  plan 
would  have  saved  some  lives  at  least,  and,  in  fact, 
some  future  expenditure.  Most  of  the  owners, 
perhaps,  felt  somewhat  remorseful;  a  few,  it  is 
not  impossible,  experienced  nothing  more  serious 
than  annoyance  and  embarrassment,  but  it  is  cer 
tain  that  there  were  one  or  two  who  were  crushed 
by  a  sense  of  personal  responsibility  for  what  had 
occurred. 

It  was  one  of  these  who  made  the  proposition 
that  Derrick's  plan  be  accepted  unreservedly,  and 
that  the  engineer  himself  should  be  requested  to 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S       315 

resume  his  position  and  undertake  the  manage 
ment  of  the  work.  There  was  some  slight  de 
murring  at  first,  but  the  catastrophe  was  so  recent 
that  its  effect  had  not  had  time  to  wear  away, 
and  finally  the  agreement  was  made. 

But  at  that  time  Derrick  was  lying  senseless 
in  the  bedroom  over  the  parlor,  and  the  deputa 
tion  from  the  company  could  only  wait  upon 
Grace,  and  make  an  effort  at  expressing  their 
sympathy. 

After  Joan's  return  to  her  lodgings,  she,  too,  was 
visited.  There  was  some  curiosity  felt  concern 
ing  her.  A  young  and  handsome  woman,  who 
had  taken  so  remarkable  a  part  in  the  tragedy, 
was  necessarily  an  object  of  interest. 

Mr.  Barholm  was  so  fluently  decided  in  his 
opinion  that  something  really  ought  to  be  done, 
that  a  visit  to  the  heroine  of  the  day  was  the 
immediate  result.  There  was  only  one  form  the 
appreciation  of  a  higher  for  a  lower  social  grade 
could  take,  and  it  was  Mr.  Barholm  who  had  been, 
naturally,  selected  as  spokesman.  He  explained 
to  Joan  the  nature  of  the  visit.  His  friends  of  the 
Company  had  heard  the  story  of  her  remarkable 
heroism,  and  had  felt  that  something  was  due  to 
her — some  token  of  the  admiration  her  conduct 
had  inspired  in  them.  They  had  agreed  that  some 
thing  ought  to  be  done,  and  they  had  called  this 
evening  to  present  her  with  a  little  testimonial. 


31 6       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

The  bundle  of  crisp  bank-notes  burned  the 
hand  of  the  man  who  held  them,  as  Joan  Lowrie 
listened  to  this  speech.  She  stood  upright  before 
them,  resting  one  hand  upon  the  back  of  a  chair, 
but  when  the  bearer  of  the  testimonial  in  question 
rose,  she  made  a  step  forward.  There  was  more 
of  her  old  self  in  her  gesture  than  she  had  shown 
for  months.  Her  eyes  flashed,  her  face  hardened, 
a  sudden  red  flew  to  her  cheek. 

"  Put  it  up,"  she  said.     "  I  wunnot  tak'  it." 

The  man  who  had  the  money  laid  it  upon  the 
table,  as  if  he  were  anxious  to  be  rid  of  it.  He 
was  in  a  glow  of  anger  and  shame  at  the  false 
step  they  had  made. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said.  "  I  see  we  have 
made  a  mistake." 

"Ay,"  she  said,  "yof  ha*  made  a  mistake.  If 
yo'  choose  to  tak'  that  an*  gi'e  it  to  th'  women  an* 
childer  as  is  left  to  want  bread,  yo'  may  do  it  an' 
welcome." 


CHAPTER  XL 
Going  South 

THE  first  day  Fergus  Derrick  was  allowed  to 
spend  an  hour  in  an  easy-chair  by  the  fire,  he 
heard  the  story  of  his  rescue  from  the  lips  of  his 
friend,  listening  to  it  as  he  rested  against  the 
propping  cushions. 

"  Don't  be  afraid  of  exciting  me,"  he  had  said  to 
Grace.  "I  have  conjectured  until  I  am  tired  of 
it.  Tell  me  the  whole  story.  Let  me  hear  the 
end  now." 

Derrick's  breath  came  quick  and  short  as  he 
listened,  and  his  haggard  face  flushed.  It  was 
not  only  to  his  friend  he  owed  his  life,  but  to 
Joan  Lowrie. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  her,"  he  said  when  Grace 
had  finished.  "  As  for  you,  Grace — well — words 
are  poor  things." 

"  They  are  very  poor  things  between  friends," 
was  Grace's  answer ;  "  so  let  us  have  none  of 
them.  You  are  on  this  side  of  the  grave,  dear 
fellow — that  is  enough." 

During  the  rest  of  the  day  Derrick  was  silent 
and  abstracted,  but  plainly  full  of  active  thought. 


318       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

By  nightfall  a  feverish  spot  burned  upon  his 
cheek,  and  his  pulse  had  quickened  dangerously. 

"  I  must  wait,"  he  said  to  Grace,  "  and  it  is 
hard  work." 

Just  at  that  time  Anice  was  sitting  in  her  room 
at  the  Rectory,  thinking  of  Joan  also,  when  there 
came  to  her  the  sound  of  footsteps  in  the  passage 
and  then  a  summons  to  the  door. 

"  You  may  come  in,"  she  said. 

But  it  was  not  a  servant,  as  she  had  supposed ; 
it  was  Joan,  with  a  bundle  upon  her  arm. 

"  You  are  going  away,  Joan  ?  "  she  said.  "  To 
night?" 

"Ay,"  Joan  answered,  as  she  came  and  stood 
upon  the  hearth.  "  I'm  goin'  away  to-neet." 

"  You  have  quite  made  up  your  mind  ?  " 

"  Ay,"  said  Joan.  "  I  mun  break  loose.  I  want 
to  get  as  far  fro'  th'  owd  life  as  I  con.  I'd  loike 
to  forget  th'  most  on  it.  I'm  goin'  to-neet,  be 
cause  I  dunnot  want  to  be  axed  questions.  If  I 
passed  thro'  th'  town  by  day-leet,  theer's  them  as 
ud  fret  me  wi'  their  talk." 

"  Have  you  seen  Mr.  Grace  ?  "  Anice  asked. 

"  No.  I  shanna  ha'  th'  chance  to  say  good-by 
to  him.  I  coom  partly  to  ax  yo'  to  say  it 
fur  me." 

"  Yes,  I  will  say  it.  I  wish  there  were  no  need 
that  I  should,  though.  I  wish  I  could  keep 
you." 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S       319 

There  was  a  brief  silence.  Joan  knelt  on  one 
knee  by  the  fender. 

"  I  ha'  bin  thinkin'  o'  Liz,"  she  said.  "  I  thowt 
I'd  ax  yo' — if  it  wur  to  happen  so  as  she'd  drift 
back  here  agen  while  I  wur  away — as  yo'd  say  a 
kind  word  to  her,  an'  tell  her  about  th'  choild,  an* 
how  as  I  nivver  thowt  hard  on  her,  an'  as  th'  day 
nivver  wur  as  I  did  na  pity  her  fro'  th'  bottom  o' 
my  soul.  I'm  goin*  toward  th'  south,"  she  said 
again  after  a  while.  "  They  say  as  th'  south  is  as 
different  fro'  th'  north  as  th'  day  is  fro'  the  neet. 
I  ha'  money  enow  to  help  me  on,  an'  when  I  stop 
I  shall  look  fur  work." 

Anice's  face  lighted  up  suddenly. 

"To  the  south!"  she  said.  "Why  did  I  not 
think  of  that  before?  If  you  go  toward  the 
south,  there  is  Ashley-Wold  and  grandmamma, 
Mrs.  Galloway.  I  will  write  to  her  now,  if  you 
will  let  me,"  rising  to  her  feet. 

"  If  yo'll  gi'  me  th'  letter,  I'll  tak'  it  an'  thank 
yo',"  said  Joan.  "  If  she  could  help  me  to  work 
or  th'  loike,  I  should  be  glad  enow." 

Anice's  mother's  mother  had  always  been  her 
safest  resource  in  the  past,  and  yet,  curiously 
enough,  she  had  not  thought  of  turning  toward 
her  in  this  case  until  Joan's  words  had  suggested 
such  a  course. 

Joan  took  the  letter  and  put  it  in  the  bosom  of 
her  dress. 


320       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

"  Theer's  no  more  danger  fur  him?"  she  said, 
"  Thwaite  towd  me  he  wur  better." 

She  spoke  questioningly,  and  Anice  answered 
her — 

"  Yes,  he  is  out  of  danger.  Joan,  what  am  I  to 
say  to  him  ?  " 

"  To  say  to  him  ! '' 

She  started  slightly,  but  ended  with  a  strained 
quietness  of  manner. 

"  Theer's  nowt  to  say,"  she  added,  rising,  and 
preparing  to  go. 

Anice  rose  also.  She  held  out  both  her  hands, 
and  Joan  took  them. 

"  I  will  go  downstairs  with  you,"  said  Anice ; 
and  they  went  out  together. 

When  they  reached  the  front  door,  they  kissed 
each  other,  and  Anice  stood  in  the  lighted  hall 
and  watched  the  girl's  departure. 

"  Good  -  by  !  "  she  said  ;  "  and  God  bless 
you ! " 

Early  in  the  morning,  Derrick  called  his  friend 
to  his  bedside, 

"  I  have  had  a  bad  night,"  he  said  to  him. 

"  Yes,"  Grace  answered.  "  It  is  easy  enough  to 
*ee  that." 

There  was  an  unnatural  sparkle  in  the  hollow 
eyes,  and  the  flush  upon  the  cheek  had  not  faded 
away. 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S       321 

Derrick  tried  to  laugh,  and  moved  restlessly 
upon  his  pillow. 

"  So  I  should  imagine,"  said  he.  "  The  fact  is 
— well  you  see  I  have  been  thinking." 

"  About—" 

"  Yes — yes — Grace,  I  cannot  wait — I  must  hear 
something.  A  hundred  things  might  happen.  I 
must  at  least  be  sure  she  is  not  far  away.  I  shall 
never  regain  strength  as  long  as  I  have  not  the 
rest  that  knowledge  will  bring  me.  Will  you 
go  to  her  and  take  her  a  few  words  of  gratitude 
from  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  readily." 

"  Will  you  go  now  ?" 

"  Yes." 

Grace  would  have  left  the  room,  but  Derrick 
stretched  out  his  hand  and  touched  him. 

"  Stay—"  he  said. 

Grace  turned  to  him  again. 

"  You  know  " — in  the  old  resolute  way — "  you 
know  what  I  mean  the  end  to  be,  if  it  may  be?  " 

"  I  think  I  do." 

Grace  appeared  at  the  Rectory  very  soon  after 
ward,  and  asked  for  Miss  Barholm.  Anice  came 
down  into  the  parlor  to  meet  him  at  once.  She 
could  not  help  guessing  that  for  some  reason  or 
other  he  had  come  to  speak  of  Joan,  and  his  first 
words  confirmed  her  impression. 

"  I  have  just  left  the  Thwaites',''  he  said.     "  I 


322       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

went  there  to  see  Joan  Lowrie,  and  find  that  she 
is  not  there.  Mrs.  Thwaite  told  me  that  she  had 
left  Riggan.  Is  that  true  ?  " 

"  Yes.  She  went  away  last  night.  She  came 
here  to  bid  me  good-by,  and  leave  a  farewell 
message  for  you." 

Grace  was  both  troubled  and  embarrassed. 

"  I "  he  faltered.    "  Do  you  understand  it?  " 

"  Yes,"  Anice  answered. 

Their  eyes  met,  and  she  went  on: 

"  You  know  we  have  said  that  it  was  best  that 
she  should  break  away  entirely  from  the  past. 
She  has  gone  to  try  if  it  is  possible  to  do  it.  She 
wants  another  life  altogether." 

"  I  do  not  know  what  I  must  do,"  said  Grace. 
"  You  say  she  has  gone  away,  and  I — I  came  to 
her  from  Derrick." 

"  From  Mr.  Derrick ! "  Anice  exclaimed ;  and 
then  both  relapsed  into  silence. 

It  was  Anice  who  spoke  first. 

"  Mamma  was  going  to  send  some  things  to 
Mr.  Derrick  this  morning,"  she  said.  "  I  will 
have  the  basket  packed  and  take  it  myself.  If 
you  will  let  me,  I  will  go  with  you  as  soon  as  I 
can  have  the  things  prepared." 


CHAPTER   XLI 
"  A  Soart  o'  Pottygy" 

THE  interview  between  Anice  and  Derrick  was 
a  long  one.  At  the  end  Derrick  said : 

"  I  shall  go  to  Ashley-Wold." 

Grace  had  been  called  out  almost  immediately 
after  his  return  to  the  house ;  but  on  his  way 
home  he  met  Anice,  and  having  something  to  say 
about  the  school,  he  turned  toward  the  Rectory 
with  her. 

They  had  not  gone  far,  however,  before  they 
were  joined  by  a  third  party, — Mr.  Sammy  Crad- 
dock,  who  was  wending  his  way  Crownward. 
Seeing  them,  Mr.  Craddock  hesitated  for  a  mo 
ment,  as  if  feeling  somewhat  doubtful ;  but  as 
they  approached  him,  he  pulled  off  his  hat.  "  I 
dunnot  know,"  he  said,  "  after  aw,  if  it  would  not 
be  as  well  to  ha'  a  witness.  Hope  yo're  nicely, 
Miss,"  affably;  "an'  th'  same  to  yo',  Parson. 
Would  yo',"  clearing  his  throat,  "  would  yo' 
moind  shakin'  honds  wi'  a  chap  ?" 

Grace  gave  him  his  hand. 

"Thank  yo',  Parson,"  said  "Owd  Sammy." 
"  It's  th'  first  toime,  yo'  know,  but  it  shanna  be  th' 


324       THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

last,  if  yo'  dunnot  see  owt  agen  it.  Th'  truth  is, 
as  it's  summat  as  has  been  on  my  moind  fur  some 
toime, — ivver  sin'  th'  accident,  i*  fact.  Pluck's 
pluck,  yo'  see,  whether  yo're  fur  a  mon  or  agen 
him.  Yo're  not  mich  to  look  at.  Yo'  mowt  be 
handsomer,  an'  yo'  mowt  be  likelier, — yo'  mowt 
easily  ha'  more  muscle,  an'  yo'  dunnot  look  as  if 
yo'  wur  like  to  be  mich  i'  argyment;  but  yo're 
getten  a  backbone  o'  yo're  own, — I'm  danged  if 
yo'  ha'  na." 

"  I'm  much  obliged  to  you,  I  am  sure,"  said 
Grace. 

"  Yo'  need  na  be,"  answered  Sammy,  encourag 
ingly.  "  Yo'  need  na  be.  If  yo'd  getten  owt  to 
be  obleeged  to  me  fur,  I  should  na  ha'  so  mich  to 
say.  Yo'  see  I'm  makin'  a  soart  o'  pollygy, — a 
soart  o'  pollygy,"  with  evident  enjoyment  of  the 
word.  "  An'  that's  why  I  said  as  it  mowt  be  as 
well  to  ha'  a  witness.  I  wur  allus  one  as  set  more 
store  by  th'  State  than  th'  Church,  an*  parsons 
wur  na  i'  my  line,  an'  happen  I  ha'  ben  a  bit  hard 
on  yo',  an'  ha'  said  things  as  carried  weight  agen 
yo'  wi'  them  as  valleyed  my  opinion  o'  things  i' 
general.  An'  sin'  th'  blow-up,  I  ha'  made  up  my 
moind  as  I  would  na  moind  tellin'  yo'  as  I  wur 
agoin'  to  wi'draw  my  oppysition,  sin'  it  seemit 
as  if  I'd  made  a  bit  o'  a  mistake.  Yo're  neyther 
knave  nor  foo',  if  yo'  are  a  parson.  Theer  now! 
Good-mornin'  to  yo' ! " 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S       325 

*  Noan  on  'em  con  say  as  I  wur  na  fair,"  "  Owd 
Sammy  "  said  to  himself,  as  he  went  on  his  way 
shaking  his  head,  "  I  could  na  ha'  done  no  fairer. 
He  desarved  a  bit  o'  commendation,  an'  I  let  him 
ha'  it.  Be  fair  wi'  a  mon,  say  I,  parson  or  no. 
An'  he  is  na  th'  wrong  sort,  after  aw." 

He  was  so  well  pleased  with  himself,  that  he 
even  carried  his  virtue  into  The  Crown,  and 
diffused  it  abroad  over  his  pint  of  sixpenny.  He 
found  it  not  actually  unpleasant  to  display  him 
self  as  a  magnate,  who,  having  made  a  most  natural 
mistake,  had  been  too  independent  and  straight 
forward  to  let  the  matter  rest,  and  consequently 
had  gone  to  the  magnificent  length  of  apologetic 
explanation. 

"  I  ha'  bin  havin'  a  word  or  so  wi'  th'  little  Par 
son,"  he  said.  "  I  ha'  ben  tellin'  him  what  I 
thowt  o'  what  he  did  th'  day  o'  th'  blow-up.  I 
changed  my  moind  about  th'  little  chap  that  day, 
an'  I  ha'  ben  tellin'  him  so." 

"  Yo'  ha'  ?  "  in  an  amazed  chorus.  "  Well,  now, 
that  theer  wur  a  turn,  Sammy." 

"Ay,  it  wur.  I'm  noan  afeard  to  speak  my 
moind  one  way  or  t'other,  yo'  see.  When  a  mon 
shows  as  he's  med  o'  th'  reet  cloth,  I  am  na  afeard 
to  tell  him  I  loike  th'  web." 


CHAPTER  XLI1 

Ashley-Wold 

Two  weeks  after  Joan  left  Riggan,  she  entered 
the  village  of  Ashley-Wold  on  foot.  With  the 
exception  of  a  few  miles  here  and  there,  when 
a  friendly  wagoner  had  offered  her  a  lift,  she  had 
made  all  her  journey  in  this  manner.  She  had 
met  with  discouragement  and  disappointment. 
She  had  not  fancied  that  it  would  be  an  easy  mat 
ter  to  find  work,  though  she  had  expressed  no 
doubt  to  Anice,  but  it  was  even  a  more  diffi 
cult  matter  than  she  had  imagined.  At  some 
places  work  was  not  to  be  had,  in  others  the  fact 
that  she  was  an  utter  stranger  went  against 
her. 

It  was  evening  when  she  came  to  Ashley-Wold ; 
the  rain  was  falling  soft  and  slowly,  and  the  air 
was  chill.  She  was  cold,  and  faint  with  hunger. 
The  firelight  that  shone  through  the  cottage  win 
dows  brought  to  her  an  acute  sense  of  her  bodily 
weariness  through  its  suggestion  of  rest  and 
cheerfulness.  The  few  passers-by — principally 
men  and  women  returning  from  their  daily  labor 
• — glanced  at  her  curiously. 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S       327 

She  had  held  to  the  letter  as  a  last  resource. 
When  she  could  not  help  herself  she  would  ask 
for  assistance,  but  not  until  then.  Still  she  had 
always  turned  her  face  toward  Ashley-Wold. 
Now  she  meant  to  go  to  Mrs.  Galloway  and 
deliver  the  letter. 

Upon  entering  the  village  she  had  stopped  and 
asked  a  farmer  for  directions.  He  had  stared  at 
her  at  first,  hardly  comprehending  her  northern 
dialect,  but  had  finally  understood  and  pointed 
out  the  house,  whose  gables  could  be  seen  from 
the  road-side. 

So  Joan  made  her  way  toward  it  through  the 
evening  rain  and  mist.  It  was  a  pretty  place, 
with  a  quaint  picturesqueness.  A  hedge,  which 
was  a  marvel  of  trimness,  surrounded  the  garden, 
ivy  clung  to  the  walls  and  gables,  and  fancifully 
clipped  box  and  other  evergreens  made  a  modest 
greenery  about  it,  winter  though  it  was.  At  her 
first  glance  at  this  garden  Joan  felt  something 
familiar  in  it.  Perhaps  Anice  herself  had  planned 
some  portion  of  it.  Joan  paused  a  moment  and 
stood  looking  over  the  hedge. 

Mrs.  Galloway,  sitting  at  her  work-table  near 
the  window,  had  found  her  attention  attracted  a 
few  moments  before  by  a  tall  young  woman  com 
ing  down  the  road  which  passed  on  one  side  of 
the  hedge. 

"  There  is  something  a  little  remarkable  about 


328       THAT   LASS  O'   LOWRIE'S 

her,"  she  said.  "  She  certainly  does  not  belong 
to  Ashley-Wold." 

Then  Joan  stopped  by  the  hedge  and  she  saw 
her  face  and  uttered  a  low  exclamation  of  surprise 
at  its  beauty.  She  drew  nearer  to  the  window 
and  looked  out  at  her. 

"  She  must  be  very  cold,"  said  Mrs.  Galloway. 
"  She  looks  as  if  she  had  made  a  long  journey.  I 
will  send  Hollis  to  her." 

A  few  minutes  later  there  tripped  down  the 
garden-walk  a  trimly  attired  young  housemaid. 

The  mistress  had  seen  her  from  the  window 
and  thought  she  looked  cold  and  tired.  Would 
she  come  into  the  house  to  rest  ? 

Joan  answered  with  a  tinge  of  color  on  her 
cheek.  She  felt  a  little  like  a  beggar. 

"  Thank  yo';  I'll  come,"  she  said.  "  If  th'  mis 
tress  is  Mrs.  Galloway,  I  ha'  a  letter  fur  her  fro* 
Lancashire." 

Mrs.  Galloway  met  them  on  the  threshold. 

"  The  young  woman,  ma'am,"  said  the  servant, 
"  has  a  letter  from  Lancashire." 

"  From  Lancashire  !  "  said  Mrs.  Galloway. 

"  Fro'  Riggan,  mistress,"  said  Joan.  "  Fro* 
Miss  Anice.  I'm  Joan  Lowrie." 

That  Joan  Lowrie  was  a  name  familiar  to  her 
was  evident  by  the  change  in  Mrs.  Galloway's 
face.  A  faint  flush  of  pleasure  warmed  it,  and 
she  spoke  quickly. 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S       329 

"  Joan  Lowrie !  "  she  said.  "  My  dear  child's 
friend !  Then  I  know  you  very  well.  Come  into 
the  room,  my  dear." 

She  led  her  into  the  room  and  closed  the 
door. 

"  You  are  very  cold  and  your  shawl  is  wet," 
laying  a  kind  hand  upon  it.  "  Give  it  to  me,  and 
take  a  seat  by  the  fire.  You  must  warm  yourself 
thoroughly  and  have  a  cup  of  tea,"  she  said,  "  and 
then  I  will  begin  to  ask  questions." 

There  was  a  wide,  low-seated,  low-armed,  soft- 
cushioned  chair  at  one  side  of  the  fire,  and  in  this 
chair  she  had  made  Joan  seat  herself.  The  sud 
den  change  from  the  chill  dampness  of  the  winter 
day  to  the  exquisite  relief  and  rest,  almost  over 
came  the  girl.  She  was  deadly  pale  when  Mrs. 
Galloway  ceased,  and  her  lips  trembled ;  she  tried 
to  speak,  and  for  a  moment  could  not;  tears 
rushed  to  her  eyes  and  stood  in  them.  But  she 
managed  to  answer  at  last. 

"  I  beg  yo're  pardon,"  she  said.  "  Yo'  ha'  no 
need  to  moind  me.  Th'  warmth  has  made  me  a 
bit  faint,  that's  aw.  I've  noan  been  used  to  it 
lately." 

Mrs.  Galloway  came  and  stood  near  her. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  that,  my  dear,"  she  said. 

"  Yo're  very  kind,  ma'am,"  Joan  answered. 

She  drew  the  letter  from  her  dress  and  handed 
it  to  her. 


330       THAT   LASS  O'   LOWRIE'S 

"  I  getten  that  fro*  Miss  Anice  the  neet  I  left 
Riggan,"  she  said. 

When  the  tea  was  brought  in  and  Joan  had  sat 
down,  the  old  lady  read  the  letter. 

"  Keep  her  with  you  if  you  can.  Give  her  the  help 
she  needs  most.  She  has  had  a  hard  life,  and  -wants 
to  forget  it" 

"  Now,  I  wonder,"  said  Mrs.  Galloway  to  her- 
self,  "  what  the  help  is  that  she  needs  most  ?  " 

The  rare  beauty  of  the  face  impressed  her  as 
it  invariably  impressed  strangers,  but  she  looked 
beneath  the  surface  and  saw  something  more  in  it 
than  its  beauty.  She  saw  its  sadness,  its  resolu 
tion. 

When  Joan  rose  from  the  table,  the  old  lady 
was  still  standing  with  the  letter  in  her  hand. 
She  folded  it  and  spoke  to  her. 

"  If  you  are  sufficiently  rested,  I  should  like 
you  to  sit  down  and  talk  to  me  a  little.  I  want 
to  speak  to  you  about  your  plans." 

"  Then,"  sn'd  Joan,  "  happen  I'd  better  tell  yo* 
at  th'  start  as  I  ha'  none." 

Mrs.  Galloway  put  her  hand  upon  her  shoulder. 

"  Then,"  she  returned,  "  that  is  all  the  better  for 
me,  for  I  have  in  my  mind  one  of  my  own.  You 
would  like  to  find  work  to  help  you " 

"  I  mun  find  work/'  Joan  interrupted,  "  or 
starve." 

"  Of  any  kind  ?  "  questioningly. 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S       331 

"  I  ha*  worked  at  th'  pit's  mouth  aw  my  life," 
said  Joan.  "  I  need  na  be  dainty,  yo'  see." 

Mrs.  Galloway  smoothed  the  back  of  the  small, 
withered  hand  upon  her  knee  with  the  palm  of 
the  other. 

"Then,  perhaps,"  she  said  slowly,  "you  will 
not  refuse  to  accept  my  offer  and  stay  here — with 
me?" 

"  Wi'  yo'?  "  Joan  exclaimed. 

"  I  am  an  old  woman,  you  see,"  Mrs.  Galloway 
answered.  "  I  have  lived  in  Ashley-Wold  all  my 
life,  and  have,  as  it  were,  accumulated  duties,  and 
now  as  the  years  go  by,  I  do  not  find  it  so  easy  to 
perform  them  as  I  used  to.  I  need  a  companion 
who  is  young  and  strong,  and  quick  to  under 
stand  the  wants  of  those  who  suffer.  Will  you 
stay  here  and  help  me?" 

"Wi'  yo'?"  said  Joan  again.  "Nay,"  she 
cried  ;  "  nay — that  is  not  fur  me.  I  am  na  fit." 

On  her  way  to  her  chamber  some  hours  later 
Mrs.  Galloway  stopped  at  the  room  which  had 
been  Anice's,  and  looked  in  upon  her  guest.  But 
Joan  was  not  asleep,  as  she  had  hoped  to  find  her. 
She  stood  at  the  fireside,  looking  into  the  blaze. 

"  Will  you  come  here  a  minnit  ?  "  she  said. 

She  looked  haggard  and  wearied,  but  the  eyes 
she  raised  to  her  hostess  were  resolute. 

"  Theer's  summat  as  I  ha'  held  back  fro'  sayin* 
to  yo',"  she  said,  "  an'  th'  more  I  think  on  it,  th' 


332       THAT  LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S 

more  I  see  as  I  mun  tell  yo'  if  I  mean  to  begin 
fair  an'  clear.  I  ha'  a  trouble  as  I'm  fain  to  hide; 
it's  a  trouble  as  I  ha'  fowt  wi'  an'  ha'  na  helped 
mysen  agen.  It's  na  a  shame,"  straightening  her 
self;  "it's  a  trouble  such  as  ony  woman  might 
bear  an'  be  honest.  I  coom  away  fro'  Riggan  to 
be  out  o'  th'  way  on  it — not  to  forget  it,  for  I 
conna — but  so  as  I  should  na  be  so  near  to — to  th' 
hurt  on  it." 

"  I  do  not  need  another  word,"  Mrs.  Galloway 
answered.  "  If  you  had  chosen  to  keep  it  a  se 
cret,  it  would  have  been  your  own  secret  as  long 
as  you  chose  that  it  should  be  so.  There  is  noth 
ing  more  you  need?  Very  well.  Good-night, 
my  dear  I " 


CHAPTER  XLIII 

Li%  Comes  Back 

"  Miss,"  said  Mrs.  Thwaite,  "  it  wur  last  neet, 
an'  you  mowt  ha*  knocked  me  down  wi'  a  feather, 
fur  I  seed  her  as  plain  as  I  see  yo'." 

"  Then,"  said  Anice,  "  she  must  be  in  Riggan 
now." 

"  Ay,"  the  woman  answered,  "  that  she  mun, 
though  wheer,  God  knows,  I  dunnot.  It  wur 
pretty  late,  yo'  see,  an'  I  wur  gettin'  th'  mester's 
supper  ready,  an'  as  I  turns  mysen  fro'  th'  oven, 
wheer  I  had  been  stoopin'  down  to  look  at  th'  bit 
o'  bacon,  I  seed  her  face  agen  th'  winder,  starin* 
in  at  me  wild  loike.  Ay,  it  wur  her  sure  enow, 
poor  wench  !  She  wur  loike  death  itsen — main 
different  fro'  th'  bit  o'  a  soft,  pretty,  leet-headed 
lass  she  used  to  be." 

"  I  will  go  and  speak  to  Mr.  Grace,"  Anice 
said. 

The  habit  of  referring  to  Grace  was  growing 
stronger  every  day.  She  met  him  not  many 
yards  away,  and  before  she  spoke  to  him  saw 
that  he  was  not  ignorant  of  what  she  had  to 
say. 


334       THAT   LASS  O'   LOWRIE'S 

"  I  think  you  know  what  I  am  going  to  tell 
you,"  she  said. 

"  I  think  I  do,"  was  his  reply. 

The  rumor  had  come  to  him  from  an  acquaint 
ance  of  the  Maxys,  and  he  had  made  up  his  mind 
to  go  to  them  at  once. 

"Ay,"  said  the  mother,  regarding  them  with 
rather  resentful  curiosity,  "  she  wur  here  this 
mornin' — Liz  wur.  She  wur  in  a  bad  way  enow 
— said  she'd  been  out  on  th'  tramp  fur  nigh  a 
week — seemit  a  bit  out  o'  her  head.  Th'  mon 
had  left  her  again,  as  she  mowt  ha'  knowed  he 
would.  Ay,  lasses  is  foo's.  She'd  ben  i'  th'  Union, 
too,  bad  o'  th'  fever.  I  towd  her  she'd  better  ha' 
stayed  theer.  She  wanted  to  know  wheer  Joan 
Lowrie  wur,  an'  kept  axin  fur  her  till  I  wur  tired 
o'  hearin'  her,  and  towd  her  so." 

"  Did  she  ask  about  her  little  child  ? "  said 
Anice. 

"  Ay,  I  think  she  did,  if  I  remember  reet.  She 
said  summat  about  wantin'  to  know  wheer  we'd 
put  it,  an'  if  Joan  wur  dead,  too.  But  it  did  na 
seem  to  be  th'  choild  she  cared  about  so  much  as 
Joan  Lowrie." 

"  Did  you  tell  her  where  we  buried  it?"  Grace 
asked. 

"  Ay." 

"Thank  you.  I  will  go  to  the  church-yard," 
he  said  to  Anice.  "  I  may  find  her  there." 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S       335 

"  Will  you  let  me  go  too  ?  "  Anice  asked. 

He  paused  a  moment. 

"  I  am  afraid  that  it  would  be  best  that  I  should 
go  alone." 

"  Let  me  go,"  she  pleaded.  "  Don't  be  afraid 
for  me.  I  could  not  stay  away.  Let  me  go — for 
Joan's  sake." 

So  he  gave  way,  and  they  passed  out  together. 
But  they  did  not  find  her  in  the  church-yard. 
The  gate  had  been  pushed  open  and  hung  swing, 
ing  on  its  hinges.  There  were  fresh  footprints 
upon  the  damp  clay  of  the  path  that  led  to  the 
corner  where  the  child  lay,  and  when  they  ap 
proached  the  little  mound  they  saw  that  some 
thing  had  been  dropped  upon  the  grass  near  it. 
It  was  a  thin,  once  gay-colored,  little  red  shawl. 
Anice  bent  down  and  picked  it  up.  "  She  has 
been  here,"  she  said. 

It  was  Anice  who,  after  this,  first  thought  of 
going  to  the  old  cottage  upon  the  Knoll  Road. 
The  afternoon  was  waning  when  they  left  the 
church-yard ;  when  they  came  within  sight  of  the 
cottage  the  sun  had  sunk  behind  the  hills.  In  the 
red,  wintry  light,  the  place  looked  terribly  deso 
late.  Weeds  had  sprung  up  about  the  house,  and 
their  rank  growth  covered  the  very  threshold, 
the  shutters  hung  loose  and  broken,  and  a  damp 
greenness  had  crept  upon  the  stone  step. 

A  chill  fell  upon  her  when  they  stood  before 


336       THAT  LASS  O'   LOWRIE'S 

the  gate  and  saw  what  was  within.  Something 
besides  the  clinging  greenness  had  crept  upon 
the  step, — something  human, — a  homeless  creat 
ure,  who  might  have  staggered  there  and  fallen, 
or  who  might  have  laid  herself  there  to  die.  It 
was  Liz,  lying  with  her  face  downward  and  with 
her  dead  hand  against  the  closed  door. 


CHAPTER. 
Not  Yet 

MRS.  GALLOWAY  arose  and  advanced  to  meet 
her  visitor  with  a  slightly  puzzled  air. 

"  Mr. "  she  began. 

"  Fergus  Derrick,"  ended  the  young  man. 
"From  Riggan,  madam." 

She  held  out  her  hand  cordially. 

"  Joan  is  in  the  garden,"  she  said,  after  a  few 
moments  of  earnest  conversation.  "  Go  to 
her." 

It  was  a  day  very  different  from  the  one  upon 
which  Joan  Lowrie  had  come  to  Ashley- Wold. 
Spring  had  set  her  light  foot  fairly  upon  the 
green  Kentish  soil.  Farther  north  she  had  only 
begun  to  show  her  face  timidly,  but  here  the 
atmosphere  was  fresh  and  balmy,  the  hedges 
were  budding  bravely,  and  there  was  a  low  twitter 
of  birds  in  the  air.  The  garden  Anice  had  so 
often  tended  was  flushing  into  bloom  in  sunny 
corners,  and  the  breath  of  early  violets  was  sweet 
in  it.  Derrick  was  conscious  of  their  springtime 
odor  as  he  walked  down  the  path,  in  the  direction 
22 


338       THAT  LASS  O'   LOWRIE'S 

Mrs.  Galloway  had  pointed  out.  It  was  a  re 
tired  nook  where  evergreens  were  growing,  and 
where  the  violet  fragrance  was  more  powerful 
than  anywhere  else,  for  the  rich,  moist  earth  of 
one  bed  was  blue  with  them.  Joan  was  standing 
near  these  violets, — he  saw  her  as  he  turned  into 
the  walk, — a  motionless  figure  in  heavy  brown 
drapery. 

She  heard  him  and  started  from  her  revery. 
With  another  half-dozen  steps  he  was  at  her 
side. 

"  Don't  look  as  if  I  had  alarmed  you,"  he  said. 
"  It  seems  such  a  poor  beginning  to  what  I  have 
come  to  say." 

Her  hand  trembled  so  that  one  or  two  of  the 
loose  violets  she  held  fell  at  his  feet.  She  had 
a  cluster  of  their  fragrant  bloom  fastened  in  the 
full  knot  of  her  hair.  The  dropping  of  the  flowers 
seemed  to  help  her  to  recover  herself.  She  drew 
back  a  little,  a  shade  of  pride  in  her  gesture, 
though  the  color  dyed  her  cheeks  and  her  eyes 
were  downcast. 

"  I  cannot — I  cannot  listen,"  she  said. 

The  slight  change  which  he  noted  in  her  speech 
touched  him  unutterably.  It  was  not  a  very 
great  change ;  she  spoke  slowly  and  uncertain 
ly,  and  the  quaint  northern  burr  still  held  its 
own,  and  here  and  there  a  word  betrayed  her 
effort. 


THAT   LASS   O'   LOWRIE'S       339 

"  No,  no,"  he  said,  "  you  will  listen.  You  gave 
me  back  my  life.  You  will  not  make  it  worth 
less.  If  you  cannot  love  me,"  his  voice  shaking, 
"it  would  have  been  less  cruel  to  have  left  me 
where  you  found  me — a  dead  man, — for  whom  all 
pain  was  over." 

He  stopped.  The  woman  trembled  from  head 
to  foot.  She  raised  her  eyes  from  the  ground 
and  looked  at  him  catching  her  breath. 

"  Yo'  are  askin*  me  to  be  yo're  wife ! "  she  said. 
"Me!" 

"  I  love  you,"  he  answered.  "  You,  and  no 
other  woman ! " 

She  waited  a  moment  and  then  turned  sud 
denly  away  from  him,  and  leaned  against  the 
tree  under  which  they  were  standing,  resting 
her  face  upon  her  arm.  Her  hand  clung  among 
the  ivy  leaves  and  crushed  them.  Her  old 
speech  came  back  in  the  quick  hushed  cry  she 
uttered. 

"  I  conna  turn  yo'  fro'  me,"  she  said.  "  Oh  ! 
I  conna ! " 

"  Thank  God  !     Thank  God  !  "  he  cried. 

He  would  have  caught  her  to  his  breast,  but 
she  held  up  her  hand  to  restrain  him. 

"  Not  yet,"  she  said,  "  not  yet.  I  conna  turn 
you  fro'  me,  but  theer's  summat  I  must  ask. 
Give  me  th'  time  to  make  myself  worthy — give 
me  th'  time  to  work  an'  strive ;  be  patient  with 


340       THAT  LASS  O'   LOWRIE'S 

me  until  th'  day  comes  when  I  can  come  to  yo' 
an'  know  I  need  not  shame  yo'.  They  say  I  am 
na  slow  at  learnin' — wait  and  see  how  I  can  work 
for  th'  mon — for  th'  mon  I  love." 


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